This was just to Victoire’s liking, for it promised stimulating conversation and the chance to observe the machinations of power. She had worn a pretty walking dress in pale-blue sateen with a half-robe and corsage of dove-gray that complemented her light-blue eyes without making her appear washed-out. Her hair was in a braided coronet without any curls around her face. She had new kid boots of gray that buttoned almost to the swell of her calf. She left her walking coat with the footman, though the room was chillier than was comfortable.
“I am going to try to talk with Carnot,” Vernet said to Victoire shortly after they arrived. “He may not want to talk to me, but possibly he will have information for us, or would be willing to make a few educated guesses. Wish me good fortune.” He kissed her hand and wandered away through the crowd.
It did not take very long for Victoire to get her bearings. She started toward the buffet, taking care to greet every woman she knew, but allowing herself to be drawn into conversation with none. Most of the conversations she heard related to the upcoming Coronation of Napoleon as Emperor of France. Not all were approving and Victoire wondered if Fouche had any agents among the crowd. Lost in this thought she was startled when a small, middle-aged woman with intense eyes and the manner of a street-seller reached out and grabbed her arm.
“Madame,” exclaimed Victoire, louder than she intended. Then she recognized the woman and her shock ended. “Madame LeNormande,” she said, dropping the older woman a curtsy.
“Madame Vernet,” she answered, ignoring the others standing around her and paying no notice to the astonishment her action caused. Madame LeNormande was a striking woman, seeming by force of character to be taller and more impressive than she actually was, for she was slight, of no more than average height, and was rumored to wear spectacles when alone. She was somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five, her hair negligently coifed and fading. Her black eyes were keen and intelligent.
“It is surprising to see you here,” said Victoire. “I did not think you enjoyed these entertainments.”
“I don’t,” said Madame LeNormande curtly, paying no attention to the dismay this announcement caused in the women around her. “But I realized that it was important I attend, so here I am.”
One of the women gave Madame LeNormande a reproachful stare. “You had not finished my fortune,” she complained.
“Ah!” Madame LeNormande made a quick, dismissing gesture. “Your husband will be in high favor until 1817, at which time he will fall. You will be taken in by your oldest son and his family, and will live with them quite comfortably for the rest of your life. You will have eight grandchildren, and two of them will prosper in America.” She spoke quickly and without much interest. Then she swung back toward Victoire. “You, Madame Vernet, do not have such a life. Pray remove your right glove.”
In the three years since she met Madame LeNormande, Victoire could not make up her mind about the woman: many of those around Napoleon—and Napoleon himself—swore by her predictions and said that she had the gift of prophesy. That might be true, thought Victoire, but she has the conduct of a charlatan; yet the woman was so accurate that she had twice been confined to the Bastille for her predictions. She tugged off her glove and reluctantly held out her hand, her eyes on her palm and not on the woman proposing to read it.
Madame LeNormande stared first at Victoire’s wrists. “There are three, and possibly a fourth.” She pointed to the lines just below Victoire’s hands. “These are the bracelets, and it is these, not the lines in the hand that reveal longevity. It would appear that you will live for sixty, perhaps seventy years at most, if you do not encounter a fatal accident. You have the capacity for ... let us say sixty-five to sixty-eight years of life, and all but the last will be passed generally in good health, unless you should bring misfortune upon yourself. Your hands are well-formed, not too broad, the fingers slightly longer than the palm. You will not be content to sit at home, and you will deal directly with those you encounter.” She then peered down at the palm itself. “You are a woman of rare intellect. You see this line? It is the indication of the mind. It shows that you are a very thoughtful woman, most observant and of great mental capacity, for the line goes all the way to the edge of the palm, and it is very straight. You are not often distracted by melancholy and you do not permit yourself to become lost in cloudy theories.” She touched the deep line that curved around Victoire’s thumb. “A very active and changeable life, Madame Vernet. You have seen much excitement and you will see much more. You have a hunger, a need for excitement, I think, very like what I see in the hands of some men. You have had narrow escapes, and there are more to come, which is why I have warned you about the risks of fatal accidents. You could well press your luck too far, and then you would suffer for it. Your activities may take you into strange places and stranger company.”
“Isn’t she marvelous?” murmured one of the women watching the reading.
“I’m afraid to show her my hand,” whispered the woman beside her.
Madame LeNormande went on as if no one had spoken. “You are a very constant friend, loyal and persevering. Your husband is very fortunate in you, for you are trustworthy and without guile. But you are loyal also to your friends, and the time may come when this is not as comfortable an arrangement as it is now, for your family and your friends may be at cross purposes. You have very strong passions, Madame Vernet, but they run deep and are not easily touched. Beware those who fear your passions.” She continued her examination. “You are independent in your methods and accomplish the most when left to your own devices. Your faith has not survived this rigorous strengthening of your mind, but in time you may discover it again. You are articulate except in the presence of true beauty and true ugliness. And you need privacy, with your husband and alone. It is possible that you will have a second marriage late in life, or possibly some other very enduring relationship. You will have three children, I think, but I doubt all three of them will live through childhood. But there are at least two grandchildren, and so I suppose at least one of your children will thrive.”
“I have no children, Madame LeNormande,” said Victoire stiffly.
“There are three in your hand, Madame Vernet,” the fortuneteller countered. “And two grandchildren at least.” Victoire tried to draw her hand away, but Madame LeNormande turned it over and studied the back as well. “More traveling, of course. I am sure you are aware of all the travels in your life. And beyond that, I see that there is much danger around you just now. You are not aware of it, and it is possible you will not recognize it at first. Let me warn you that when you think you have rooted it out, yet half the plant will flourish again unless you are vigilant.” She held Victoire’s hand between her own palms. “You are set on the course, Madame Vernet, and you see your way, or you think you do. But you do not often consider treachery, and how easily it can smile.” She released Victoire’s hand very suddenly. “There,” she announced.
“There?” Victoire repeated, uncertain what she ought to do next.
“That is what I can tell. Except that you have skill for botany.” She made a motion of dismissal. “You may put your glove back on. If your handsome husband should wish me to read for him, I will. Otherwise, do not approach another seer for at least six months, or you will be given faulty information. That is the way of this gift—it will not be pressed by anyone, and so the First Consul has learned to his grief.” With that she turned back to the other women and ignored Victoire completely.
As she moved away, Victoire found herself thinking of the kitchen cat—Madame LeNormande had much the same air about her.
“Oh, excuse me,” said a man as he backed into Victoire. “I did not see you, Madame. Pardon me.”
“You are pardoned,” said Victoire automatically, about to continue toward the buffet, and was startled to realize that the popinjay was not stepping back. She gave him a pointed look. “Please do me the court
esy to move aside, Monsieur.”
“Pray, not yet.” The man was not going to be put off. He bowed over Victoire’s hand with a flourish. “I am Querelle,” he announced, as if his name should mean something. Then he beamed down at Victoire, and continued in calculatedly mellifluous tones and with an imitation of good manners. “This is a most fortunate accident. I am delighted to have this opportunity to make your acquaintance, Madame Vernet. Having heard your praises sung by so many, I have been curious to meet you.”
“I was unaware I had any reputation at all,” said Victoire firmly, although it was less than the truth. She wanted nothing to do with this preening dandy who affected all the highest kicks of fashion and was so studied in his graciousness that he succeeded in being the more offensive.
“But you do, my dear Madame Vernet, most assuredly you do. Permit me to inform you that even the great Berthier speaks of you with respect for your conduct and your mind. You do not need the ravings of that charlatan”—he cocked his head in the direction of Madame LeNormande—“to confer notice.” His smile widened and gestured to show he was comparing her to everyone attending the soirée. “Who has not heard of your steadfast loyalty, and your dedication to the First Consul? They say you helped stop a gunman from shooting him in Egypt. A feat indeed! When he becomes Emperor, it is known that your actions will carve a place for your husband. And it is said that General Murat owes you his life too. How many can make such a claim on so gallant a soldier? Your husband is fortunate above all reckoning. There are those of us who have not the admirable services of such a wife, and we must advance on our own wits.”
This was more offensive than the last; Victoire wanted to twitch her skirts out of the way so that they would not brush against the man. “It is not fitting to say such things to me, Monsieur Querelle.”
There was no alteration in Querelle’s false affability. “You are convinced that you have protected Vernet, aren’t you? It is your purpose in life, and you have served him with such determination. Wouldn’t it be a shame to have it all be for nought?” He chuckled. “You think you have discovered all, and that you have performed your duty. What consolation it should be. But you reckon without others more clever than you.” He gazed over her shoulder toward the tall windows. “To have spent so long and done so much, and yet have it be for nothing.” He shook his head. “There are many who will be distressed for you, Madame Vernet, when it becomes known that your much-vaunted methods have failed.” He made a little bow and strolled away.
Victoire stared after him, thinking that Querelle was boasting, but of what? And why? She wanted to find Vernet and inquire who the man was and in what relation the two stood, but knew that this was not the place to ask such questions. She continued to the buffet, trying to concentrate on the impressions she had gained of the man in their brief and unwelcome encounter.
At the buffet she helped herself to one of the stuffed eggs, then selected a braised mushroom wrapped in bacon. As she ate, she continued to watch. Somewhat later she noticed that Querelle was deep in conversation with General Pichegru, who was preparing to leave, for one of the footmen followed him about with a gray campaign cape over his arm. Whatever the dandy Querelle was saying caused Pichegru some satisfaction, for he nodded and made a sign of approval to Querelle, and then took Querelle’s hand: Victoire had the impression that something had been exchanged, for Querelle hastily disengaged his hand and slipped it into his coat, glancing around as he did so.
“A vastly pretty entertainment,” remarked a low, sinuous voice from the corner of the buffet table. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Extremely pleasant,” said Victoire, alarm coursing through her. She turned and made herself offer a curtsy to Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord.
“The food is excellent,” Talleyrand observed.
Victoire hoped he would not ask her to sit with him. What was it about the short, lame man that distressed her so? She could not put a name to it, but whatever it was it clung to him like an odor. There were those who said Talleyrand was like a snake, but that seemed to her to malign the reptiles. Belatedly she realized she had to say something. “Chateaubriand has always been at the forefront of elegance.”
“Very true,” Talleyrand agreed, and smiled at Victoire. He was more of a dandy than Querelle, except in one particular, for although the fashion had changed, Talleyrand still wore his hair powdered. “So very well-considered,” he went on, indicating the other guests. “Just the right mix of staunch Napoleonists and detractors.” He laughed once. “In these changing times it takes skill to achieve such a perfect balance, so that one does not appear to toady to the First Consul but is not branded a dangerous radical.”
“As you say,” Victoire remarked stiffly.
“But no English. That is the one failing, and one that could yet prove costly,” Talleyrand said. “No one believes that we must have peace with England if Napoleon is to prevail.”
“I know you have warned him of this many times,” said Victoire, unable to relax.
“The more who know of it, the better,” Talleyrand stated as if he were addressing a crowd; a few heads turned but he gathered little attention. “Someone must persuade Napoleon that this must be our goal—a lasting peace with England. He has ceased to listen to me on the matter, but there are others who understand, and I hope that they will prevail over the shortsighted fools who do not appreciate our situation. Otherwise in time they—the English—will come against us, and all of Europe will suffer for it.”
“How could they prevail, if they were foolish enough to make such a move now that the First Consul has—” Victoire began, then interrupted herself so as not to encourage Talleyrand to continue.
“The English are not fools, Madame Vernet,” said Talleyrand with a slight inclination of his head. “They are a patient people, enduring and constant. We will never be able to make the Germans one with us without conquest, and Europe lies open to us. But England has the sea to defend her, and we know to our sorrow that they are tenacious enemies.” He grinned once, but there was no humor in it.
“As you say, Excellency,” Victoire said, using the title Talleyrand had when he was Bishop of Autun; this was not quite an insult but she hoped it would discourage the man. Then she saw Vernet making his way toward her through the crowd. “Excuse me, but I see—”
Talleyrand was not fooled; he regarded her lazily. “You know, Madame Vernet, there are few members of this government who have wits enough to match with yours or your husband’s. It is a pity that you do not realize it yet, for you are one of the few opponents worthy of my steel. Not many could offer you the sport I can.” The innuendo in this invitation was so blatant that Victoire wished she had sufficient credibility of reputation to permit her to slap his smiling face; to make matters worse, she had somehow lost track of Querelle.
“You are very generous to say so,” she told him, and gave her attention to Vernet. As he came up and led her away with a nod to Napoleon’s Foreign Minister, she said in an undervoice, “Thank goodness. Talleyrand makes my skin turn cold.”
“I know what you mean,” Vernet said when he was certain that Talleyrand could not overhear them. “I find myself hoping that I will discover a link from him to the English spies. For all his talk about peace with England, I cannot suppose he will do nothing to further his cause. So far there is nothing, but ...”
Victoire shook her head once. “He is venal, completely venal. And worse than venal.”
“And, I suspect,” Vernet added, “proud of it.”
Only later, as they were leaving, did Victoire remark on Querelle’s obnoxious manner as they donned their coats; Talleyrand’s miasmic presence had diminished the impression Querelle had made. “Who is this creature, Vernet? I do not like him.”
“He is one of those who rose in Paris by toadying to the right people. Considering how tumultuous the Directoire was before the general brought stabil
ity, it was quite a feat. During the Terror he was nowhere to be found. Then when there was wealth and power to be had, his kind appeared. The ministries are full of them. Of such men Querelle is among the most successful. He has friends in very high places, high enough to keep my office from inquiring as to certain matters relating to him only a few months ago. It’s odd, though, his talking with Pichegru. Considering that Pichegru is still somewhat under a cloud, I’m surprised that Querelle would bother with him. Querelle is an opportunist, my love. Right now Pichegru’s friendship is not an asset—hardly the associate Querelle seeks out. It isn’t his usual style.” He handed a small doucement to the footman and helped his wife down the stairs.
“His usual style is affected and sycophantic, if his behavior at this soirée is an indication,” Victoire decided aloud.
“He can be, but he is gaining importance, nevertheless. Don’t underestimate his ambitions.” Vernet signalled for their hired carriage.
Victoire frowned. “I inferred much the same thing from what he said to me. He is spiteful, isn’t he?”
“I have never known him to be so, but it wouldn’t surprise me,” said Vernet as he held the door open to allow Victoire to climb into the carriage.
“Do you think he could be up to something?” she asked as she took her seat and tightened her coat around her.
“You mean, do I think he might be acting against the First Consul?” He tapped on the roof of the carriage to signal the coachman to drive on. “It is possible, I suppose. He is just brazen enough to ally himself with those opposing the Empire.” He scowled at his own words. “But he is not so important. He has little impact; nowhere near the power of someone like Talleyrand, though he may aspire to such position. Oh, he is protected by his patron, the Swedish consul, but if he acted against Napoleon, his patron would throw him to the mob.”
MV02 Death Wears a Crown Page 15
