MV02 Death Wears a Crown

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “That would be an Herculean task,” he said, chuckling at the thought.

  “Well, so I think, too, but you’ve seen how many women become nothing more than dolls for their husbands: pretty, petty, and pampered.” She pursed her mouth in distaste. “Or they become all but harlots, the coins in which their husbands trade for advantage.”

  “Neither is acceptable to me,” said Vernet at once.

  “It’s to your credit.” She placed her hands in his. “I wish you Godspeed, Lucien, and I hope you’ll be in Paris again before the month is out.”

  His kiss was as swift as it was passionate. “There. Now you must hurry or the diligence will be gone.”

  She stepped back at once. “You’re an irritatingly sensible man yourself,” she chided him gently. “Take all my love with you.”

  “And mine with you,” he said as he watched her place the dispatches in her reticule as she started toward the door. It struck him afresh that he missed her whenever she was gone.

  * * *

  At Boulogne-sur-Mer the next morning a garrulous widow took a seat in the diligence as it left the inn at first light, and regaled the passengers throughout the morning with recitations of the virtues of her grandchildren in such meticulous detail that Victoire wondered if the children could actually exist. While the widow held forth, Victoire’s mood sank, and though she rallied herself inwardly, she could not rid herself of the disappointment and distress she felt whenever she allowed herself to dwell on the child she had lost. Vernet had not chided her for it as many another husband might have done, but she sensed his sorrow in his silence. As the proud grandmother rattled on, Victoire did her best to listen attentively without being seized by regrets. She kept the dispatches she carried in her reticule, and that she held in her lap with both hands.

  “They are surely the finest children in Quend,” their grandmother affirmed. “All three boys are upstanding lads, bright in their studies and devoted to their parents. The two girls are biddable and so very pretty that even the priest says they were born to break hearts.” She looked at the man opposite her, a reedy fellow in unfashionable clothes and the demeanor of a clerk. “What do you think? Am I not blessed?”

  “I would suppose that they were beaten every day if they are so pleasant. The children you beat always offer you the best face, that’s what I’ve found,” said the man harshly. “After twelve years as a schoolmaster, I have never seen it to fail. So your son must exercise his arm on them often, to have such children.”

  The widow looked affronted, sputtered that these children were not wild animals needing the taste of a whip to tame them, but perfect and angelic creatures.

  “Not in my experience,” said the schoolmaster. To the relief of all the passengers inside the diligence, the widow at last fell silent, and remained that way until she was set down at Vron, where all the passengers had a glimpse of her son and one of her perfect grandsons waiting for her in a dog-cart pulled by a stocky spotted pony.

  “Father has a temper, that’s clear,” stated the schoolmaster with authority.

  Victoire, looking at the old woman and her family, thought that it was more likely that the widow had filled her empty hours with idealizing her family. She recalled how her father had conveniently forgotten her mother’s faults after she died, and eventually had persuaded himself that they did not exist at all.

  At Rue the diligence was joined by an escort of Guard—just two tired corporals on horseback—who examined the possessions of the passengers while they had a fast luncheon at the local posting inn. In theory the escort was to provide protection against the robbers who preyed on the coaching routes, but in reality it was to prevent spies from getting to Paris.

  These were dragoons, likely sent from some depot nearby. They wore tight cream-colored coats of a style similar to those of the infantry. These differed from the foot soldiers’ uniforms in the bright red of their tunics and gray riding breeches tucked into standard black riding boots. Both of the corporals’ uniforms were visibly patched and their mounts were second rate. Their high brass helmets vaguely reminded Victoire of those she had seen portrayed as being worn by Grecian soldiers in frescoes on the walls of a Roman villa they had stayed at in the Cisalpine Republic. Along with his sword, each of the two cavalrymen carried a short musket known as a carbine.

  When the taller of the two corporals asked to search Victoire’s reticule, she hesitated to hand it over.

  “Come, Madame,” said the shorter, who was enjoying giving orders.

  Victoire opened the reticule, saying as she did, “I believe it would be best if you merely looked inside.”

  “What’s the trouble? You have jewels you don’t want the others to know about?” asked the shorter as he took the reticule and upended it, letting the contents fall onto the table in the taproom.

  “That,” she said dryly as the dispatches scattered on the table, “is the reason.”

  The taller corporal had read one of the addresses and turned pale. “These are not official, are they?”

  “They are. I am Madame Vernet. My husband is Inspector-General Vernet.” She stood a little straighter.

  “On a common diligence,” scoffed the shorter corporal.

  In spite of herself, Victoire blushed. “It is more fitting for me to travel this way and arrive safely than to demand an escort and make my travels known,” she said bluntly. “And it would have been a successful effort if you had not required me to hand over my reticule,” she added directly to the shorter corporal, “and if you had respected what I said.” She indicated the others watching.

  The shorter corporal made the mistake of trying to bluster his way out of the error. “And who’s to say that these are genuine dispatches? You say you are the wife of Inspector-General Vernet, but why should we believe you?”

  Controlling her temper, Victoire answered, “If you will do yourself the favor of inspecting the seals on the dispatches, you will recognize them.”

  “Unless the seal is stolen,” said the shorter corporal.

  Here the taller intervened. He had been inspecting one of the dispatches and now his manner was decidedly more polite. “They are authentic seals, and we’ve no report of stolen ones,” he said as he gathered up the dispatches and placed them—along with a vial of hartshorn, a dozen coins, and a bottle of scent—in Victoire’s reticule once again. “Sorry to have done this, Madame Vernet. I guess it was a mistake.”

  “It certainly was,” she said with asperity. “And you may be sure that I’ll mention it when I deliver the dispatches.” She took her reticule from the corporal. “I want your names and the name of your commanding officer.”

  The shorter once again blundered. “I don’t see any call for that.”

  The taller said, “I am Corporal Jean-Marie Feuille. He is Corporal Benoit Cruche. Our lieutenant is Yves Durand.” He saluted, and glanced at Corporal Cruche to be sure he had done the same.

  Grudgingly Corporal Cruche said, “At your service, Madame.”

  Victoire regarded them evenly, concealing the quiver of apprehension that had taken hold of her. “Belated though it is.”

  “We have our duty to do,” said Corporal Feuille apologetically.

  “And I have mine, though you may well have compromised it by this display.” She started back toward the diligence. “I trust your mistakes won’t be compounded.”

  “Of course not,” said Corporal Feuille. “We will take care to see you are protected, and the dispatches you carry.”

  “How wise,” she said.

  When the diligence was under way once again, the schoolmaster gave Victoire a long, critical look. “What an unexpected pleasure it is, Madame, to have a woman of your position in our company.”

  Victoire resisted the urge to upbraid the man. “I am a traveler, just as the rest of you are,” she said in the hope that he would be satisfied with t
hat declaration; she already felt dangerously exposed.

  “If that is the fiction you like,” said the schoolmaster with a conspiratorial leer. “There must be mischief afoot for your husband to entrust his dispatches to you instead of the soldiers. Has there been bribery or some other act they might wish to conceal?” His eyebrows raised and lowered. “Or is this a matter for discretion, some indication that the wife or daughter of a high-ranking officer has been found in the wrong bed?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” said Victoire bluntly. “Not that I am privy to what my husband bids me carry,” she added mendaciously so that she would no longer be pressed for juicy details.

  “We will keep your secret for you, whatever it is,” promised another of the travelers, a portly man of middle years who carried a case filled with upholstery material.

  This time Victoire did not respond, for she realized that it would be impossible to convince the schoolmaster or the other passengers of the truth—that she was traveling the least expensive way she could because she could not afford any other transportation, and not because she was attempting to deliver the dispatches in secret.

  “Your husband must be a very crafty man,” said the cloth-factor, his prominent eyes bulging a little. “To think of sending you on such a mission, and by such a ruse.”

  “He is,” said Victoire, watching the other passengers nod, smug in the knowledge that they were now privy to a state secret.

  “Do not worry, Madame,” said the schoolmaster. “We will not ask you any more awkward questions. We are aware when we ought to keep quiet.”

  Victoire knew better than to suppose it was so.

  THE OFFICER watched until the footman had left the room. Then he unfolded the newly cleaned and braid-covered uniform coat over his desk. As he expected, a folded piece of vellum fell onto the desk. Carefully setting the coat aside, he read the note.

  It had begun; the sacred mission was under way. He was to watch for anything that might warn the mission had been compromised. Its last line implied he should kill anyone that got too close or threatened the mission. It was signed by the secretary of the monarch, to whom he had once pledged loyalty. He had broken that oath.

  * * *

  Their next posting inn was halfway between Abbeville and Pont-Remy, where they arrived shortly after sunset, the lanterns on the coach doing little to augment the fading light. The ostlers hurried out to greet the passengers and tend to the team, and were at once gratified and alarmed to discover that the Guard escort had assigned itself the task of watching after one of the passengers.

  “You must assign her a private parlor; she is the wife of an important officer carrying secret dispatches,” ordered Corporal Feuille to the landlord as he entered the Vigne et Tonneau ahead of the rest. “She is under our protection.”

  The landlord glowered, then wreathed his pliant face in smiles. “Of course, of course, of course,” he enthused. “I will tend to it at once.”

  “And be certain that a servant sleeps outside of her room tonight,” said Corporal Cruche. “She has important information entrusted to her that must not fall into the wrong hands.”

  Victoire looked at the two soldiers in exasperation, and said to them as calmly as she could, “It might be wise not to discuss my mission.” The fear that she had succeeded in mastering reasserted itself.

  “You may rely on our discretion,” said Corporal Feuille, bowing to her a little as he stood aside to permit the other passengers to enter the inn. “We have been warned about the danger of too much loose talk, and we are guarding against it.”

  “Do you think so?” Victoire asked, but the question was lost in the general babble of arrival.

  Within the hour all the passengers had been assigned rooms and had their luggage deposited in the proper chambers while the landlord presided over the taproom, serving generous amounts of red wine to wash down the lamb stew he offered his guests.

  Victoire dined on collops of pork cooked with mushrooms in a heavy wine sauce in the isolation of the private parlor; there had been no mention of cost, but she knew it would be more than what the others were paying for their simpler fare. “I am convinced your intentions are good,” she remarked to Corporal Feuille, who had appointed himself her servant for the evening, “but I fear that you are doing little more than making me conspicuous.”

  “Permit me to be the judge of that,” said Corporal Feuille.

  “Are you convinced the isolation is necessary?” Victoire inquired as she took a long sip of wine and listened to the rumble of conversation echoing in the corridor.

  “Most definitely,” said Corporal Feuille. “We have little say as to who comes to the taproom, but here we are entitled to admit no one but yourself.” He was proud of this stratagem, and it showed.

  Victoire realized that she would not be able to change his mind easily, and so she tried a different tack. “But who’s in the taproom you could suspect?”

  “There are travelers,” he said obscurely, and made sure her wineglass was full.

  “Hardly astonishing in a posting inn,” said Victoire, and sighed a little when she realized that Corporal Feuille had not recognized the humor of her remark.

  “You speak truly, Madame Vernet,” he responded earnestly. “We have searched their luggage, but there is nothing that cannot be properly accounted for. Even the musician has his instrument with him, a horn. He says he earns his bread with it. The landlord has agreed to charge him less if he will play tonight.”

  “A musician,” said Victoire, who thought that there were few groups of people more harmless to the Republic than musicians.

  “He is bound for Paris. He carries a letter engaging him to play at the Hotel de Ville. He claims he has recently come from England, where he was engaged by the manager of a theater there, but that might not be the truth, musicians being what they are.” He watched her eat, unable to wholly conceal his own hunger.

  “There is no reason to suspect him, is there?” she inquired, and continued to eat.

  “No, nor the three men traveling in their own carriage. They have bona fides from the magistrate at Dreux, who states that they are traveling on business for the town. That accounts for their two out-riders, their coachman, and servant. One of them is an English valet. We took care to be certain he is a true valet, and not a rogue intent on deceiving us.” He was proud of himself and expected praise.

  From the taproom came the sound of a horn playing a series of hunting calls, and then the first phrases of a concerto by Mozart. Without the orchestra, the music seemed strangely disembodied.

  “I see,” she said. “And how did you arrive at that conclusion, pray?”

  “We asked about the care of coats and the proper way to shine boots. The valet knew it all, and the latest fashion in tying neck cloths. He offered to show us how the Beau Monde was done.”

  Victoire took another slice of bread and considered everything she had heard. “How many are there in the party, in total?”

  “Oh, possibly ten or eleven,” said Corporal Feuille. “Corporal Cruche is the one who has elected to deal with the stable-hands. He will know more about the coachman and the others.” He smiled.

  “And that will satisfy you, will it?” she asked, and had another sip of the wine. She sighed, for it was very good, but it awakened again the fear of what it would cost. It was useless to suppose that her guardian corporals would be willing to pay for the position they had imposed upon her.

  “It will be within the scope of our duty,” he said, his head held very high. “And then I will be able to tell everyone how we have helped to assist an Inspector-General through caring for his wife.”

  “Quite an accomplishment,” said Victoire, making no effort to disguise her sarcasm. “I am impressed.”

  “And perhaps you will mention the service we have rendered to your husband when you are once again in his com
pany? Tell him of the good service we have rendered you?” The hopeful light in his eyes was almost comical, so eager and openly hungry for advancement that Victoire very nearly granted him a modicum of support. But he pressed his luck and lost his advantage when he said, “You do understand how we have helped you, don’t you?”

  “Oh, I do understand,” said Victoire, and finished her supper.

  * * *

  The chambermaid was waiting for Victoire as she went up to her assigned room. She curtsied and called Victoire “Madame” a great many times, then indicated the way she had unpacked all of Victoire’s things and deposited them in the armoire. “But I did not touch the small case, the one you and the soldiers said I was not to open.”

  “Yes,” said Victoire, aware that the maid would expect a doucement for her efforts, needless though they were. She looked at her empty luggage and wondered how long it would take her to repack it, for she needed only her night rail, her robe, and the one traveling costume for the morning. All the rest might better have been left in her luggage.

  There was a sound at the door, and she turned to see a stranger glancing in. “Yes?” she said in a tone calculated to halt any advances and to conceal her apprehension.

  “You are the Inspector-General’s wife?” the man asked, his accent striving to be as fashionable as possible. “I am Claude Montrachet; I play the horn.” He lifted the case he carried so that Victoire could see it. “I’m honored to be at the same inn as you are, Madame.” He bowed slightly, then went off down the corridor without further ado.

  “A nice-spoken gent,” said the maid as she watched the musician disappear at the end of the hall. “They’re often like that, aren’t they—musicians?”

  “I suppose they are,” said Victoire, paying little heed. She indicated the bed. “Did you use my sheets, or will I have to change it?”