“Actually, I’m not,” said Murat. “But I am bored with these grand functions that eat up so much time. It takes me back to the days when I was in school, and we had to memorize page after page of Greek and Latin. There came a point when I would have preferred to learn German, just for variety.” He found a small table and there he put his empty champagne glass. “Since it would be very unwise of me to avoid these receptions and balls, I put my mind to my task, and rejoice when we have the opportunity for a little conversation.”
This assurance did not satisfy Victoire. “Murat, what is the matter?” she insisted.
“I’ve told you,” said Murat. “And I have never been more serious in my life.” He indicated the room with a wave of his hand. “This is a very heady brew, and few can resist it. I am putting my faith in you, Madame Vernet. I am asking you—very humbly, whether it seems so or not—to help me keep from being entirely sucked in.”
Victoire regarded him seriously. “All right, if that is what you truly want, I give you my word I will do what I may to warn you if I perceive you are too caught up in the life of the court.”
“It is not a court quite yet but it is getting there,” said Murat. He cleared his throat. “We’ve been talking long enough—much more and tongues will wag, which will not do either of us any good.” He lifted her hand and bowed over it. “I will visit you day after tomorrow, in the afternoon, if that is convenient?”
“Certainly,” said Victoire. “Will your wife be with you?”
“I think not,” said Murat. “I chose the day she is engaged to spend the afternoon with her family.” He started to move away from her, his political smile fixed firmly over his teeth.
“But Murat—” Victoire protested, then stopped. She realized he had been right when he warned her that they could create comment—it had happened before. She moved out of the alcove and looked around the ballroom.
More than twenty couples were dancing, but the greatest number of guests were busy with conversations. A dozen high-ranking officers in elaborate dress uniforms stood around the Ambassador, seeking to establish a place with the Swedes, who were much in favor with the First Consul.
“Well, and what do you make of it?” said Marshall Louis Alexandre Berthier as he came up to her, bowing before he took her hand. He was rigged out in all his finery, which served only to make his lamentably blocky figure and plain face the more noticeable.
Victoire’s greeting to him was not so cordial as the one she had given Murat. She curtsied and accepted his pro forma kiss on her hand. “I haven’t seen enough to come to any conclusions,” she answered.
“Oh, I doubt that, Madame Vernet; I suspect you draw conclusions in your sleep,” said Berthier. “You make more conclusions, and more accurately, than most of the men working for me.” He paused. “Your husband isn’t back, so it would not be proper for me to ask you to dance. So let us agree to stand and talk for a moment.”
“All right,” said Victoire, her curiosity piqued.
Berthier moved a little closer, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “I have spoken with General Moreau. About the file he took from Fouche’s Ministry.” He cleared his throat nervously. “He has said it was returned.”
“Oh?” said Victoire.
“He told me he no longer has it.” Berthier coughed diplomatically. “It would hardly be suitable for me to question the word of a fellow officer, but it troubles me that there is no record of the return of the file at the Ministry.”
“Yes, it is troubling,” Victoire agreed. “Fouche does not tolerate sloppiness.”
“No, he does not.” Berthier began to stroll toward a group of officers; he motioned Victoire to come with him. “Therefore I ask myself what can have occurred. I will take advantage of this meeting to find out what you make of it.”
Victoire took up the question at once, her light-blue eyes brightening with interest. “First, it may be that General Moreau is not telling you the truth. He may or he may not still have the file. If he does not have the file, it is possible that he returned it to Fouche, or that he gave it to someone else. Or it may be that he destroyed it. If he returned it to the Ministry, it may be that someone there purloined it, or that its return was not recorded, or recorded inaccurately. Or it is possible that Fouche is lying, and that he does indeed have the file and is seeking for some reason to cast doubts on General Moreau.”
Berthier was able to smile at Victoire’s quick summing up. “This is what I enjoy about you, Madame Vernet—this ability of yours to consider everything.”
“Hardly everything,” said Victoire. “But it is a stimulating exercise, and one I, too, enjoy.” She had the last of the champagne Murat had offered her. “Give me a little time, and I will be able to prepare a more complete assessment.”
“That is the very reason I am talking with you now. I do want your thoughts on this question, and as soon as you are able. But,” he went on, lowering his voice, “I do not want you to discuss this with anyone else.”
“By anyone else, do you mean Fouche, or do you include my husband as well?” Victoire asked, not quite friendly.
“I mean Fouche and any of the other officers. Your husband, naturally, is exempt from any restrictions I impose. It would not be fitting for me to place such restraints on a wife in regard to her husband.” His frizzy hair made a sort of halo around his large, square face as he stopped in front of a large sconce of candles. “I will send a messenger to you in a few days—let us say three days—and you will hand him your summation. Is that satisfactory?”
“Do you want me to sign this summation?” Victoire inquired.
“I will leave that to you. Whatever you believe is most wise will be acceptable to me.” He bowed to her without taking his hands from his pockets. “I am pleased to have seen you here, Madame Vernet, and I look forward to another conversation with you in the near future.”
“Thank you,” said Victoire automatically, noticing that Berthier was becoming ill-at-ease. “I wish you good evening, General Berthier.” She glanced around to see if there was any obvious reason for his discomfort but could discern nothing out of the way.
Berthier was already heading toward the door, looking around as if he feared he was being pursued.
The rest of the evening passed quickly, a glittering blur of polite conversations and whispered gossip. Murat did not approach Victoire again, and no other officer singled her out for anything more than compliments to be passed to her husband upon his return.
* * *
Claude Montrachet faced Colonel Sir Magnus Sackett-Hartley across the single plank table that, along with two stools and a mattress, had been installed in the rented house. “I say you are wrong.”
“You are taking too great a risk,” said Sackett-Hartley, “No matter how great the gain could be, you stand to lose your men, and that is not a wise trade.”
“It is necessary,” Montrachet insisted stubbornly. “If we do not act, we will lose the advantage we have gained.”
Sackett-Hartley threw up his hands in dismay. “What advantage is that? This house? Our quarters at the inn?” he demanded. “You seem to think that just because we have been able to reach Paris and have not been discovered in little more than a week, that we are therefore secure. I don’t think we can afford to make that assumption.”
“You are too cautious,” said Montrachet. “I have been able to attend several grand functions already. Now that I have another horn, I have access through the little consorts who provide entertainment for those around the Corsican. There would be no difficulty in getting a few more of our men into such an occasion. It would be an easy matter to conceal a weapon, and then wait for Napoleon’s arrival.” He folded his arms—he no longer wore a sling—and glared.
A slow drizzle was falling, not enough to make noise, but everything had turned dank and cold; the low fire in the single hearth made little he
adway against it.
“Very sensible, killing the man in the middle of all his officers, with all his supporters around him. That’s supposing that it would be possible to attack him at all, for someone would likely throw himself in front of the fellow to protect him. Whether we succeeded or not, how should any of us escape?” Sackett-Hartley was not impressed with what Montrachet proposed. “Or do you think we would have the opportunity to tum our weapons on ourselves?”
“That is a possibility,” said Montrachet stiffly.
“If you think that it would be possible, you are forgetting the company—they may wear satin and gold braid, but they are soldiers, those men around him, his generals.” He faced Montrachet, growing more annoyed. “Napoleon is guarded by his Grenadiers, the Consular Guard, even at balls. And there is that Mameluke, as well, the one from Egypt who is always with him. They say the man sleeps across the door of Napoleon’s bedchamber. Do you suppose that anyone could get off more than one shot in such a gathering?”
“I think there would be sufficient confusion to make it worth the attempt; it is better than waiting for the perfect opportunity to present itself,” said Montrachet firmly, “You credit these upstarts with too much sense and purpose. If anything should happen to Napoleon, there would be such confusion that I venture to guess that we could all escape before we were detected. If you are not willing to try, you and your lot can continue to hide at Le Chat Gris, and slink back to England when I and my men have done what we have sworn to do.”
“We don’t know enough, not yet,” said Sackett-Hartley, switching to English as his emotions grew more heated. “We don’t know what the Ministry of Safety knows, we don’t know if our allies have been able to remove all mention of the men with us. If anything remains in the files, it will be an easy thing for Fouche’s people to recognize and detain all of us. And you know what that will mean.”
Montrachet’s lip curled with contempt. “Why do you assume we must fail? If your uncle had been as timorous as you are, he would have been useless.”
Now Sackett-Hartley was angry. “My uncle succeeded because he would not be led to foolish bravado. He had daring, but that is not recklessness. You are mistaking a grand gesture for a triumph, and that way lies ruin for us all.”
“Do you think so?” Montrachet laughed. “What a fool you are.”
“Because I am circumspect? You think I am a coward because I will not be so imprudent as to undertake the hazardous action you have decided you want?” He paced the length of the room. “You have not heard from our allies, and yet you think you can proceed without their help. I do not agree, and I will advise those seven men with me to have nothing to do with so ill-conceived a scheme as yours.” He turned on his heel and started toward the door. “I am not going to help you bring us all to execution, not if there is anything I can do to prevent it.”
“The Frenchmen will see it my way,” said Montrachet confidently.
“Ask them,” Sackett-Hartley recommended.
“You may be sure that I will,” said Montrachet, and watched as Sackett-Hartley slammed out of the ancient house. When the Englishman was gone, Montrachet drew up one of two three-legged stools in the room and sat down. He reached inside his coat and drew out a large, sealed envelope. Smiling, he opened the envelope and drew out the thick folds of paper that had once been in Fouche’s flies. With mental thanks to General Moreau, he unfolded the pages and smoothed them out on the plank table. Taking his time about it, he started to read.
* * *
When Murat, now serving as Governor of Paris, came to the Vernets’ house, Odette presented him with a variety of little cakes, a paté in the Norman style, and two kinds of cheese, along with a deep red Cotes du Rhone that had an aftertaste of raspberries. She knew he was quite busy preparing the city for the Coronation Napoleon had ordered, less than two months off, and wanted to show him her best. There were rumors that even the Pope would attend.
“This is quite good,” Murat approved as he helped himself and glanced at his hostess. He was in uniform, but not one of the very grand dress ones he often chose to wear to impress others. “And if I know how things are with you, you’ve sacrificed supper for the next two or three days to provide this for me.”
Victoire gave him a shocked stare. “How can you say that?”
“I can say it because it is the truth.” He poured wine for both of them. “Give me a little credit, Madame Vernet. You and I have been through too much together for you to deceive me on this point. Between our narrow escape on the Nile, the problem in Italy, and that intrigue two years ago, there is a tie holding us.” He cut a slice of cheese. “I noticed your ballgown the other evening.”
“What was wrong with it?” Victoire asked, chiding herself for giving away so much.
“Nothing, if one did not observe it carefully. In fact, it was a most ingenious creation. I admire your skills and your audacity. But if you continue to use old lace and old velvet, someone other than myself will notice eventually, and that will not redound to your advantage.” He took a bite of the cheese. “This is excellent.”
“What do you mean, old lace and old velvet?” she challenged.
“I might not have noticed,” said Murat in an abstracted tone. “But my grandmother made lace, you see, and I remember those patterns she used to do. The lace you wore was like that, and much heavier than what you would buy today. Therefore, I surmised that you had raided your mother’s closets, as it were, and had made up the dress that way.”
“There are people who still make the old lace patterns,” said Victoire without conviction. “They sell them more cheaply because they are not in vogue, and I like them quite as well as the current modes.”
“There are dolts out there who might believe that farrago, but I am not one,” said Murat. “It won’t fadge, my friend.” His smile took the worst sting out of what he said. “I know your circumstances are straitened. If you think—”
Victoire interrupted him. “Did you mention this to anyone?”
“No. Why should I? But I remarked upon it to myself because it confirmed what I have suspected this last year and more—the station granted your husband forces you to live beyond your means, Madame, through no fault of your own, and you are suffering for it.” He put his wineglass aside. “And that saddens me; I am concerned for you.”
“It vexes me,” said Victoire, abandoning her affronted manner. “But what am I to do, Murat? The fact of the matter is that Vernet’s salary does not cover the expenses of being an Inspector-General, and my inheritance is barely adequate to keeping this house. With the cost of everything rising, what are we to do?”
“Vernet is not in a position to borrow, is he? I understand he is a younger son.” Murat helped himself to one of the little cakes.
It was apparent to Victoire that Murat had made himself familiar with the facts of their lives. “His father could not afford to leave him much, and what there was is entailed. It provides him a little income each year, but—”
“Fouche does not like to hear high officials have run into debt. He fears that makes them subject to bribes and other temptations.” Murat had a bit of pate. “Is this your recipe, or did your housekeeper supply it?”
“The recipe is my mother’s,” said Victoire.
“It is wonderful.” The compliment was sincere but it was also clearly a delaying tactic while Murat achieved the best position. “Fouche has asked many of us to see that some officers resign rather than risk having them compromised. They were of lower office, still ... I don’t want to alarm you, but it could happen to Vernet if matters continue as they are.”
“I am aware of that,” said Victoire, watching Murat narrowly. “Why do you mention this? If you want to offer Vernet another position, I warn you that he will not accept. This is the work he wants to do, and unless—”
“I don’t need him on my staff, even if he were incline
d to accept such an offer, which I doubt he would,” said Murat at once. “He is at best an adequate horseman. Though it served him well enough against that traitor in Egypt. No, that was not what I intend for him, or, more correctly, for you.” He looked directly at Victoire. “I propose to extend you a loan, a sizeable one.”
Victoire straightened in her chair. “A loan, Murat? In exchange for what?”
“Oh, don’t poker up like that, Victoire,” said Murat with a chuckle. “I’ve had too many opportunities to compromise you already to need to bribe you now, were that my intent.”
As much as Victoire wanted to be offended, she could not manage it. She pressed her lips together, but a smile escaped out the corners. “All right, you are not trying to corrupt me,” she allowed. “I’ll give you that much.”
“Good,” he approved. “Now, about the loan. It will be private, between you and me. I will not ask any collateral, and there will not be demands imposed on you later. You have my word on that. But there is something I expect in exchange, and I do not expect you to refuse me. I do want to be kept informed if there are any activities against me.”
“But I do that already,” said Victoire, thinking back two years ago. “And I would continue to do it; you do not need to offer me money.”
“But you need money. And your husband is an honest man. There are too few of those in the world.” He had more of the wine. “Listen to me, Victoire. There are too many men coming to the government who are there for their own advancement before any attempts at justice. Those men who, like your husband, are trying to maintain the ideals on which the Republic was founded are being driven from position by these hyenas, or are succumbing to other influences through bribes and coercion. Therefore it is necessary that Vernet and those few like him be supported in their work. And to that end, I will underwrite his work through the loan I extend privately to you. If you like, you need not tell him about it, or say that it was a legacy from a relative.”
MV02 Death Wears a Crown Page 13
