MV02 Death Wears a Crown

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I do not like to lie to Vernet,” said Victoire stiffly.

  “It is up to you, however you handle it,” said Murat. “But do not refuse out of hand, not with the changes that are coming to France. France needs men like your husband, and I would not like to try to find my way through this Consulary snakepit without an occasional timely warning from a friend I can trust.”

  “You are bribing me, in fact?” she asked, intending to be playful but not succeeding.

  “That isn’t what I would call it; I have said it is a loan,” Murat told her as he cut another slice of cheese.

  “But you say nothing of repayment. You mean that you will not require me to repay you? You are actually making a gift which you are rendering tolerable by calling it a loan?” Victoire asked, color mounting in her cheeks.

  “Madame Vernet, both you and I must hope that your husband’s services will bring him better fortunes than what he now enjoys,” said Murat. “And you are not without resources of your own.”

  “You expect me to break my father’s trust in order to repay you?” Victoire demanded. “Murat, this is ludicrous.”

  “I expect nothing of the sort,” said Murat bluntly. “I expect you to be the sensible woman you are and agree to take the money. I will put it in writing that I will ask nothing of you than what you already provide. I will stipulate that you must leave my heirs the money in your will, if that makes you feel less burdened by the loan.” He poured a glass of wine for her. “Victoire, you are not a married hussy who seeks to make her husband’s promotions on her back, and you are not a puppeteer pulling his strings. You are a good wife and for that alone I would admire you. But I owe you my life, for Egypt and two years ago. How can I, in honor, see you floundering and not do what I can to help you?”

  She accepted the glass of wine he handed to her. “I would hardly call it saving your life.”

  “I would, and I was there,” said Murat dryly. “Little as you may think there is reason for it, you have my gratitude for heroism that most soldiers would envy.” He touched the rim of her glass with his. “If you want to be my friend, let me discharge some of the obligation I have to you through this loan.”

  Victoire sighed. “The trouble is, you make it all seem so sensible,” she protested. “I shouldn’t listen to you—we both know that—but I cannot help feeling persuaded by all you say. Those years of education have stood you in good stead, Murat.”

  “A rueful compliment if ever I heard one,” said Murat, smiling a little. “Tell me you will accept my loan, then, and then let us settle for a comfortable gossip. I haven’t been able to do that for weeks.”

  “I ought to tell you no,” said Victoire slowly. “I know I ought to, but—”

  “But you are a sensible woman, and you know that it is better to have money from me than leave Vernet exposed to bribes and the possibility of losing his post.” His dark-blue eyes glistened. “I have said that you are a woman of rare perspicacity. And you have demonstrated it yet again.”

  “Vernet won’t like it,” Victoire predicted, then recalled their conversation of a month ago. “But he might prefer this to running the risks you mention.”

  “He is a reasonable man, your husband. So handle this in any way you wish, Madame, and let us then forget about it.” Murat gave her one of the little cakes. “For heaven’s sake, eat something, Victoire. I am beginning to think that this is all the food you have in the house.”

  “It’s not quite that bad,” she confessed.

  “How reassuring,” he said without excusing his sarcasm. “Why didn’t you tell me about this? Why didn’t you inform me?”

  “It isn’t your concern, Murat,” she said bluntly.

  “And why not?” he asked. “Because I am married to Napoleon’s sister? Because we are not relatives? You are my comrade-at-arms, and that bond runs deeper than blood.” He seemed almost angry. “Let me do something virtuous for once, will you?”

  “I’ve said I’ll accept the loan,” she said grudgingly.

  “As you would have a rotten tooth drawn,” Murat responded at once. “You know it is the sensible thing to do, but you loathe doing it.” He put his wineglass down. “The draft was deposited to your account by my advocate before I came here. According to what the banker was told, an uncle left it to you. That is all he knows and all he will be able to find out, I’ve made certain of that. For you did have an Uncle Remi who has been dead little more than a year, didn’t you? You will discover that the money appears to have come from him.” The admission was not contrite. “It is an accomplished thing.”

  Victoire wanted so much to be outraged, to upbraid Murat for such presumption, but try as she would, she could not muster the necessary indignation. She began half a dozen expostulations but abandoned them almost at once. Finally she took a long sip of wine and did her best to organize her thoughts. “When did you decide to do this?”

  “At the Swedish reception,” said Murat. “When I realized how badly you needed my help. That I might finally pay back part of what I owe you. I must admit it is a relief to be able to do so.” He went on in a more distant tone. “You know, I’ve seen a man die of poison before. I watched that Italian officer suffering so terribly, and felt helpless. If you had not warned me, I would have died the same way. There is not money enough in this world to pay for being spared that.” He regarded her steadily. “Are you angry with me?”

  “I should be,” she said. “I know it is very improper of me to accept this money, and I know that Vernet will be shocked.” She reached out and took a slice of cheese for herself. “But I cannot conceal from you what relief it is to know that we will not be ruined.”

  This time Murat chuckled. “It is also a great relief to me, Madame.”

  She answered his grin with one of her own. “You are much too clever, Murat.”

  “Would that it were so,” he answered with a pretense at humility. “Let us say that I am wise enough to realize when I am likely to be out-gunned by you, and therefore have the sense to prepare.”

  Her expression grew more serious. “I hope that it will be possible to explain it to Vernet so handily.”

  “Do not doubt it,” said Murat. “You and I are not the only ones in Paris to have such a bargain. Do not doubt that Vernet knows it. And if this is not sufficient assurance for you, have him talk with me, and I will give him whatever guarantees he wishes to ensure your protection.” His manner changed again, now becoming more worldly. “I have little enough to be proud of in my life—and do not remind me of the cavalry charges I have led, for that is not virtue—but this is one thing I can do that is not tainted with the lust for power or glory. It would please, though likely astound, my old instructors at the seminary.”

  Victoire frowned though she spoke lightly enough. “It would be uncharitable of me to deprive you of an opportunity for virtue, is that your argument?”

  “It is,” said Murat. “And so I will tell Vernet, if he taxes me with my arrangement with you.”

  “Vernet knows of our friendship and trusts us both without question.” Victoire fixed him with her stare.

  Joachim Murat smiled. His reputation with the ladies, before Caroline, had been considerable. But there had never been any question of his behavior toward Victoire. “Very wise of him.”

  “Very well, I capitulate,” she said as she passed him the wine to refill his glass. “And I hope that neither of us will have cause to regret this.”

  INSPECTOR-GENERAL Lucien Vernet arrived home a week later; it was a deceptive autumn day with bright sunlight belied by a chill wind and deep shadows that leached the heat out of the air. He entered his house at mid-afternoon to discover his wife and their housekeeper in deep conversation with a carpenter and his assistant.

  “What a scene to greet a man,” he said. “What disaster threatens us now?”

  “No disaster,” said Victoire, tu
rning to him with delight. “And less than ever now that you are home.”

  He had put down the case he was carrying, and held his arms open to her. “Ah, Victoire!” he exclaimed as she ran to him.

  The carpenter stared at them curiously, but he remained discreetly silent beside Odette.

  “They are staring,” whispered Victoire between kisses.

  “Let them,” answered Vernet. “They might learn something.” “Perhaps I ought to come back tomorrow,” suggested the carpenter, looking at Odette for an answer.

  She shook her head. “No. Let us withdraw to the kitchen and review what we have discussed with you. Madame and I have already gone over what is required.” She cocked her head toward the embracing couple. “He is a returning soldier. Neither of them will have any attention to spare.”

  “No doubt you’re right,” said the carpenter, and resigned himself to an hour in the kitchen with the housekeeper.

  As soon as the two were gone, Vernet lifted Victoire into his arms. “I have missed you. I could not miss food and drink more.”

  She wanted to give him a bantering answer, but the words stopped in her throat and she put her arms around his neck. “I thought I would perish of missing you.”

  “You had better not,” he warned her, starting toward the stairs, and remarking as he started upward, “Ah. The bannister is repaired at last.”

  “It was necessary,” she said, paying little attention to this domestic detail. “If you’d sent a messenger ahead, everything would have been ready to welcome you.”

  “I’d rather surprise you,” said Vernet, shoving his way through the door into their room. “Look at the welcome you’ve given me.” Playfully he tossed her onto the bed.

  “It is hardly a welcome yet,” she said, and reached out to him again, this time with passion in her eyes. “Let me show you what welcome is.”

  He was pulling at his pelisse, discarding his uniform hastily as she worked the fastenings holding her muslin housedress. When he was down to shirt and unmentionables, he reached for her again. “By God and Saint Michael, Victoire, you grow more intoxicating to me with every passing day.”

  “Then you should come home more often,” she said, attempting to pull her dress over her head without standing up.

  “Let me do that,” he offered, and took the bodice in both hands, tugging upward.

  Then she was in her slip and corset, and she reached to pull his shirt out of the waistband of his unmentionables. “And take off your boots,” she recommended.

  He sat down at once and obliged her, tossing the boots across the room before he turned to wrap her in his arms again. “Take the pins out of your hair.” He had already pulled one out of the neat coronet of braids she wore. “And loosen it.”

  “If you will take the rest of your clothes off,” she bargained as much to get her breath back as to take her hair down.

  “Agreed,” he said, and rose to pull off his unmentionables. Now he was in his underwear and she could see clearly how excited he was.

  She had her hair down and had unfastened the lacings of her corset. With two expert wiggles, she was out of her clothes entirely. “Come. Warm me.” In spite of the desire gathering in her, the chill of the room intruded.

  “Very well,” he said, and cast the last of his garments aside as she flung back the bedding.

  His body was familiar and strange at once, but his ardor propelled them together with feverish intensity. The sharpness of their need left little time for subtlety. There were not enough ways to touch or taste or unite them that fully gratified them as they came together; they strove a second time and finally a third before the frenzy left them.

  * * *

  “I am perplexed,” Vernet admitted two days later as they sat together in the withdrawing room, listening to the sound of hammers and saws in the parlor. “I don’t like this covert arrangement, but—” He indicated the house. “The work is required, and how else could it be done?”

  “I know of no way,” said Victoire. She stared around the room. “Murat told me that the bank has nothing that would link the money to him. And it is true that my Uncle Remi might have left me something—had he anything to leave.” Her brows drew together. “I have tried to think of a way to return the money without exposing him and myself to the sort of attention that would embarrass all of us, and I have yet to hit upon the means.”

  Vernet nodded. “Your friend Murat appears to have anticipated everything.” He slapped his hands together. “Well, I won’t say that the money isn’t welcome; it spares me from having to compromise my position. But it could prove—”

  “I don’t think Murat will say anything, to anyone,” said Victoire. “I have given this my close consideration, and I believe he meant what he said to me. I know that his wife would not approve of the loan, and no doubt Napoleon would dislike having one of his Inspectors beholden to a Marshall, and so I think Murat will keep his word, and the matter will remain private.” She studied an old print hanging on the far wall as if she had never seen it before. “I was afraid of what you would think of me, Vernet, when I told you of this. I was afraid you might suppose that I had entered into a clandestine—”

  “Affair?” Vernet finished for her. “There are many husbands who might be excused for thinking such things of their wives, especially with a man like Murat, so handsome and powerful. His escapades once were the talk of Italy, and then he was just a wounded General du Brigade. There are men who would encourage their wives in such things. But those women are not you, Victoire, and I know it. So does Murat, it appears.”

  She continued to stare at the print. “I would despise myself if I thought you suspected, even for an instant, that I would—”

  ”Well, I do not suspect you,” Vernet interrupted her. “I know you are loyal to me and faithful to your vows.” He reached over and took her hand. “It bothers me that you were so reluctant to tell me of this. I know it is awkward, but the fact that you admit you hesitated, that causes me grief, for it seems that you do not have the reliance upon me that I have reposed in you.”

  Her answer was delayed as a fury of hammering sounded on the other side of the door.

  “That was not why I hesitated,” she said when the drubbing stopped.

  “It may not be the entire reason, but it was part of it, most surely,” said Vernet. “I can see it in your eyes.” He rose and took a tum about the room. “You could have kept it from me, couldn’t you?”

  “No,” she answered.

  “Murat provided the means—he cloaked the loan.” His tone was not accusing but there was something hard at the back of his eyes. “You could have remained silent and let me believe what the banker said.”

  “No,” she repeated. “I could not.”

  His face softened. “No,” he agreed. “And that is why I know that there is no reason for me to doubt you or suspect your motives.” He came back to where she sat and drew her up out of the chair. “You would no more permit me to be deceived than you would let Murat be poisoned.”

  “You make it sound so dire,” she protested, but without the same pragmatism she might have used for another issue.

  “Not dire, my love. It is what I value in you, and why.” He bent to kiss her, and she responded to the surge of passion that went through him. “Sadly, I have an appointment with Fouche in an hour,” he said as he stepped back from her. “If I did not, we might well be back in bed. Again.”

  “There is always this evening,” she whispered.

  “After the banquet, I fear,” he said reluctantly. “I am bidden to Pichegru’s for an officer’s banquet. It is expected to continue until ten.” He gestured his resignation. “I must not refuse to attend. There are too many men coming who have asked to hear about the state of affairs in Antwerp.”

  She knew this was true but could not disguise the disappointment she felt. “Perhaps
tomorrow morning we might rise late.”

  “It is possible,” he answered. “If my duties do not require me to report at first muster.”

  “Heaven forbid!” said Victoire.

  “Amen,” answered Vernet. “But tomorrow afternoon I am released from duty at four. That will give us all evening, and leave time for supper, as well.” Anticipation shone in his eyes. “Will you be willing to wait until then?”

  “If I must,” she said. “But I warn you, these few hours will be harder to endure than all those weeks we were apart. It is one thing to miss you when you are in Antwerp, and quite another thing when you are in Paris.” She reached out and touched his face. “I don’t think I will ever grow tired of loving you, Lucien.”

  “That is reassuring,” he said. “For I know I will never grow tired of you.”

  * * *

  At the soirée the guest of honor was Count Jean Rapp. The able if rather stolid soldier had been with the infantry in Egypt, an exceptionally honest and dependable general. Napoleon noticed these qualities and had recently been sending the often-wounded Rapp as his representative to sensitive but not complicated negotiations. Most of these were with the many small German states that stood between France and Prussia.

  So the company was mostly military men and their wives, although some of the more important ministers and a few favored intellectuals were included, along with the great actor Talma, who held court so graciously that most of the ambitious men around him regarded him with veiled outrage. Count Lazare Carnot—much to everyone’s surprise—had put aside his well-known distaste for Paris and the Consulate and presented himself in the very elegant drawing rooms of Viscount François René Chateaubriand and his wife Celeste.

  Here everyone was fashionably unfashionable, dressing with studied restraint, taking care not to flaunt their wealth or position, deliberately wearing few jewels; there were no elaborate coiffeurs; as it was late afternoon, most of the women were dressed in promenade frocks instead of ballgowns, and the men wore parade instead of dress uniforms. This liberal attitude of restraint was reflected in the guests, several of whom were at odds with the Consulate.