“There may be something in my mother’s trunks. They are in the attic, aren’t they? If we look through them, we may come across something we can use.” Victoire had another bit of wine. “Those dresses of hers are more than twenty years out of fashion but if we choose carefully, we may be able to use the fabrics, at least.”
“It seems as if we are robbing the dead,” said Odette sadly.
Victoire shared her uncertainty. “I know, I know, Odette. But it is how things are. With the carpenter wanting payment for repairing the windows and the staircase, I cannot find the money to purchase new ballgowns. I have already given up the hope of anything new for the Grand Reception, which is going to annoy Vernet when he learns of it. But it was rotted window frames or new gowns. So let us plan to raid my mother’s chests.” She felt the cat butt his head against her leg, and she reached down to scratch his head.
“We will do whatever we can. If you can find satin in a color you do not usually wear, that would help,” said Odette, doing her best to make reasonable suggestions. “A rose, perhaps, or even a puce, if it—”
“Not puce,” said Victoire emphatically. “I look as if I have succumbed to sunstroke in puce. But you may be right about a rose. I have not worn that shade very often—I do not think pale hair goes well with rose; it is a color for women with dark hair and pale skin—but it may be possible to find a color that will not make me look like a country milk-maid.”
“There is a mercer at Saint-Sulpice, and occasionally he has very good fabrics for far less than you would pay for the same on the other side of the Seine.” She pursed her lips. “I will go with you tomorrow morning, if that suits you.”
“Yes, it does,” said Victoire, who disliked shopping intensely, and never more than when she had to be so frugal. “I am most grateful for your help, Odette, and I realize that you deserve more than my thanks for this service.”
Odette blushed. “If you had not employed me, Madame Vernet, I do not like to think what would have happened to me. I could not go back to my family, for they cannot provide for my brothers and sisters. My husband’s family lost everything in the Revolution; he told you that before he died. So I would have been without any means if you—” She broke off. “All my brothers save the oldest have had to leave home and seek their fortunes. Two have gone to America, and I do not think we will ever see them again. There is only land and money enough for my oldest brother at home.”
“And the others have gone to the army,” said Victoire.
“Against my father’s wishes,” said Odette. “His dislike of the First Consul grows fiercer every day. He has declared that if France is to have a king, it had better be a proper Bourbon and not a Corsican upstart.” She stared down at her hands as if her father’s opinions might have stuck to her.
“Many another shares his sentiments,” said Victoire. “I heard two men in the street today, and they were both decrying the opulence of Napoleon’s court. The two men claimed that the Revolution had done nothing but brought a new crew of luxurious pirates to the throne.” She coughed gently. “There are such complaints everywhere. I have heard that there was a small uprising in Normandy, not a month ago, of Normans seeking to restore the king to power.”
“My father was not a revolutionary, but he said that the king had forgotten the people and his fate was because of that omission. Now he says that Napoleon is worse than the kings ever were, for the kings of France kept to France and did not career all over Europe in search of glory, but were content to summon glory to them.” Odette sighed in confusion. “I have tried to reason with him, but he never listens to what women say. All he wishes to hear is that I have found another husband.”
Victoire knew enough of Odette’s past that this recitation could no longer shock her, but rather than being relieved, she felt responsibility more keenly. “If I knew of a suitable man, Odette, you may be certain that I would—”
“I know, Madame Vernet, and I thank you for your concern. There are other employers who would be at pains to keep men away from me, so that I would continue as housekeeper.” She lifted her chin. “My sister works for one such; only two weeks ago she complained of it to me when she was allowed to visit for the afternoon. I did not know how to advise her. She sees men only at church, and then with an escort of other servants. But she has her sights on advancement by marrying the chef or the butler.”
“Your sister is not very wise,” said Victoire.
“Still,” said Odette, “what else is she to do?”
For once Victoire had no answer, and so she changed the subject. “How are we to deal with the demands on officers when the costs of these functions continue to multiply.”
“We will think of something,” said Odette, deliberately echoing Victoire’s determined optimism.
* * *
In the mirror Victoire’s reflection was slightly blurred due to the age of the glass. She took a step back and surveyed the ballgown she wore, her eyes narrowing critically to detect any obvious signs of refurbishment. The slip was long, falling from the high waist in thick folds of peau de soie in a color between rose and lilac called “Whispers.” The robe over it was of heavy silver Belgian lace edged in silver and gold beading in a leaf pattern that was repeated in the silken shawl she wore over her shoulders. The silver velvet corsage was also beaded, and the lace tulip sleeves were lined in satin. Old-fashioned diamond drops hung from her ears, and a small tiara fronted the elaborate knot of fair curls on the crown of her head. She wore long white gloves and wished that she had a bracelet to clasp around one wrist, for as it was the gloves served only to indicate the scarcity of her jewels.
“It is very elegant, Madame Vernet,” said Odette, who had buttoned her into the dress. “I don’t think anyone would recognize what you have done. The lace is unusual, but I don’t suppose anyone would suspect it came from your mother’s old petticoat.”
“I hope not,” said Victoire earnestly. She reached up and adjusted the tiara, thinking to herself as she did that if there were no condition on her inheritance of it, it would be the next of her heirlooms to go, and the last of any significant value. As it was, she would be able to wear them until they were passed to her daughter.
“That ballgown of your mother’s was very useful. All that silver lace, and the velvet.” Odette had helped Victoire cut up the wide-skirted dress and the elaborate lace petticoats, and together they had pieced them into the lace robe and velvet corsage where the beading concealed much of the odd assembly they had done. “They don’t make much of that style of lace anymore, do they?”
“No; the fashion has changed,” said Victoire with a slight frown.
“Perhaps you will renew the fashion,” said Odette. She tweaked the back of the robe where it fell in a short train. “Try not to let anyone step on this. I don’t think the piecing will hold.”
“Nor do I,” said Victoire, and wrapped the shawl around her shoulders a second time, thinking that she would be pleased when fashion dictated something a trifle warmer for correct evening wear.
“The coach will be here in ten minutes, Madame,” said Odette as she glanced anxiously at the clock. “With just the one footman.”
“Don’t start on that again, Odette,” said Victoire without heat. “A coach is an extravagance, and two footmen would be completely unreasonable. Besides, I do not expect to be waylaid by highwaymen in the middle of Paris.”
“There are others who could attack the coach,” said Odette darkly.
“But they will not, not tonight. Fouche has put men on the street to ensure public safety. The Swedes have insisted on it. Not that I blame them, of course, but it is perhaps too much caution. Besides, these autumn nights are getting cold, and no robber wants to let his fingers get so stiff he cannot pull a trigger.” Victoire reached for her reticule—it was her best one, with beading and pearls worked all over it. “But I am pleased you are concerned for my
safety.”
“If Inspector-General Vernet were here—” Odette began.
“Well, he is not. And I am capable of fending for myself, after all,” said Victoire, suppressing a pang of loneliness. “He will be back by the first of the week, and then you need not worry so much that I might be waylaid.”
“And are you carrying a charged pistol?” asked Odette, not entirely in jest.
“No, but I must suppose the footman will,” said Victoire, unflustered. “And the coachman may well be armed, too.” She took a last look at her reflection, then started toward the door. “You need not wait up for me.”
Odette shook her head. “I will meet you when you come in, Madame, no matter what the hour. You cannot get out of those clothes without help, and after all the work we have done these last three days, I will not let you tear that lace, which you will unless I help you.”
Victoire knew she was right. “Very well,” she said, and started down the newly repaired stairs.
“It is a pity, Madame, that you cannot wear that dress on more than one occasion,” said Odette as she watched Victoire descend.
“It certainly is,” said Victoire with feeling.
* * *
Victoire completed her deep court curtsy to the Swedish Ambassador, and as she rose noticed the fixed expression in his prominent blue eyes. He must be exhausted with greeting so many guests, she thought to herself. I wonder if he will remember anyone? She accepted the soft-voiced pleasantries and answered with some equally inane, then passed on to Bernadotte, resplendent in his court uniform. Again she curtsied, but not as deeply as she had to the Ambassador. “Good evening, General.”
“Good evening, Madame Vernet,” he responded, bowing to kiss her hand. “You are an elegant sight. How very kind of you to come.”
“You are very gracious,” said Victoire. “I was surprised when your invitation came, for this is a very grand occasion. It is an honor to be included.” She knew it was what he wanted to hear; she curtsied again and went on to Desirée. “Good evening, Madame Bernadotte.”
“Madame Vernet,” said Desirée, a faint twist of annoyance in her smile. “How kind of you to come.”
“The kindness, Madame, was your invitation,” said Victoire in proper form. “I am most appreciative that you would remember me.”
“A pity your husband is not here,” said Desirée, and she could not entirely conceal her spite. “But that is the fate of an officer’s wife, isn’t it?”
“Very true, but he will return shortly.” Victoire said, telling Desirée what most certainly she knew.
“How fortunate. Such an attractive man ought not to be left alone too long.” She looked sly as she motioned Victoire away so that she could greet the next man in line.
NAPOLEON ARRIVED amid a flurry of slamming doors and scurrying servants. Behind him were several generals, including Moreau, St. Cyr, Pichegru, and Ney, whose height and bright red hair made him easy to identify. Victoire had seen most of these men at various events she and Vernet were now required to attend.
Napoleon moved rapidly through the crowd, aides dashing competitively about to bring him a drink or sweet-meat. With him was his step-son Eugene, who had much of his mother’s dark beauty but none of her wit. The generals, Victoire was told, had been with Napoleon to Berthier’s estate hunting rabbits. They stood quietly near the entrance and sipped claret. For all the rushing about him, Napoleon managed to give the impression of calm among the chaos. He had something to say to each of the important men in the room. Roustam-Raza, his Mameluke guard, hovered a few steps behind him.
The tall Egyptian looked about the room and then smiled as he saw Victoire. Then he returned to staring threateningly at everyone who approached Napoleon.
As always, Napoleon’s visit was brief: the First Consul’s party was leaving less than twenty minutes after it arrived. From the alcove Victoire watched as the illustrious group vanished, leaving a great vacancy in the entrance to the embassy. She noticed a spot of wax on her corsage and sighed; it had dropped from one of the hundreds of candles in the tremendous chandeliers overhead. She tried to work it off with her fingernail but without success. So preoccupied was she that she did not notice the approach of a handsome, dark-haired man of moderate height in a magnificent dress uniform.
“Nothing damaged, I hope,” said General Joachim Murat, bowing slightly to her.
Victoire looked up sharply. “Murat,” Victoire was delighted to see him. “How are you, my friend.” She curtsied and held out her hand to him.
“Well enough,” said Murat with a hitch to his shoulders before he brushed the back of her gloved hand with his lips. “I did not realize you would be here.”
“Meaning that this is a trifle above my touch. Yes. It rather surprised me, as well, but after General Bernadotte and his wife did me the honor of calling on me, I could not refuse the invitation.” She said it very calmly, and Murat’s brows rose speculatively.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “I wonder what they’re up to now?”
“Exactly so; it strikes you as suspicious as well,” said Victoire. She gave him an ironic smile. “I do not grasp why they decided to invite me.”
“Your husband is not back in Paris by any chance, is he?” asked Murat.
A liveried servant went by, a tray bearing glasses filled with champagne held aloft. Murat took two glasses and handed one to Victoire.
“Thank you,” said Victoire. “No, my husband is not yet back in Paris, which gives me pause. He is expected shortly, but ...” She indicated that she was alone with a gesture of her free hand.
“Perhaps they are hoping that you will be their advocate with him,” said Murat, touching the rim of his glass to hers. “Do you know why they should want an advocate?”
“No; but I suspect you’re right, it is something like that, but I cannot think why they need my good opinion, or why they want to influence my husband.” She sipped the champagne, then looked over the rim at him. “Your wife is here, of course.”
“Just at present she is talking with Pichegru. You can see her, over there in the dress with the green velvet train.” He looked at her then directed his gaze toward the entrance to the ballroom. “She is irked because her brother would not stay. She wants to be Napoleon’s favorite, so that the whole world knows it.”
“It would not hurt you if Napoleon gave more time to your wife, for you would share in the sister’s favor, wouldn’t you,” said Victoire, who had always found the First Consul’s sisters puzzling women. “That family is worse than the Consulate.”
Murat shrugged philosophically. “It is why Napoleon has such skill in the Consulate, I suspect. Dealing with his family has given him superior training. At the moment the quarrels are about Lucien marrying the widow, but in a week or a month or two it will be something else. At least Pauline has a favorite now, and so she is not running through the generals and Marshalls with her usual abandon.”
Victoire nodded. “How do you like being a Bonaparte by marriage?” It was a tactless question, but she hoped that Murat was enough her friend that he would not require her to be more diplomatic.
“It is not quite what I expected it would be,” said Murat candidly. “Not that it hasn’t some very fine aspects to offer. It is very flattering to have Caroline dote on me, but there is a price to her adoration: her ambitions are as tremendous as her brother’s. I don’t mind that in a leader like Napoleon—in fact, I think ambition is a most desirable attribute in such a man—but in a wife ...” He looked directly at her. “The trouble is, Victoire, that I find her desire for advancement and power very seductive.” He hesitated. “At least I am still ambivalent about it. I fear the day when Caroline will have persuaded me with her promises of position and glory.”
Victoire regarded him very seriously. “I do not wish to speak against your wife, but if she awakens that sort of appetite in you,
Murat, she has done you no service.”
“If I cannot achieve it, possibly.” Murat lowered his voice. “That is the trouble, good friend. Why not seize the day, take the golden cup? I look around me, and the generals are all scrambling to reach the heights. Look at Bernadotte and the Swedes, and he is not the only one. Napoleon has it in him to offer crowns to us now, and if he is giving them out to his relatives, why should my wife and I hang back?”
“Murat!” whispered Victoire, shocked.
“Those are the notions I regret.” He glanced around. “You must tell me, Victoire, if I go beyond the limits.”
“You are sensible enough to know for yourself,” she said at once.
“I would like to think so, but I begin to suspect it may not be true, and so I ask you to be my good angel. God knows you have been so before.” His blue eyes grew distant. “In Egypt, and two years ago. No one could ask for a stauncher friend than you. If ever there were anyone trustworthy for this task, it is you.” His expression lightened. “And you are less impressed with rank and finery than any woman I know. You have never been dazzled by splendid uniforms or fine titles.”
“I should hope not,” said Victoire with asperity. “Murat, what is the matter with you? Are you consumed with melancholy?”
“That is the quality I mean—your dedication to seeing things as they are.” He smiled at her, not the gracious political smile he used with most people, but with mischief, as if he were still an impish seminarian.
“You are making too much of a practical turn of mind,” she said, having no other way to acknowledge what was to her profound praise.
“No, I am not. It is your greatest virtue and most tenacious sin,” said Murat, finishing the last of his champagne.
“For heaven’s sake, Murat,” she said, growing confused. “What a capricious mood you are in tonight.”
MV02 Death Wears a Crown Page 12
