MV02 Death Wears a Crown

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Then he is either very clever or very stupid,” said Victoire thoughtfully.

  “And you suspect the worst of him?” Vernet suggested.

  “I don’t know yet,” said Victoire. “I will have to learn more before I am certain. Why would he draw my attention?”

  “Why bother? The man is a fop and a boor. There are better things to occupy you, Victoire, since I will be away for a week.”

  “I think it very unfair of Berthier to send you off again so soon,” Victoire said, pouting a little. “Surely you could have refused the assignment?” She said it the way Desirée might, very coquettish and pouting.

  “You know the answer to that better than I do,” Vernet said, smiling ironically. “Napoleon himself has asked me to protect those men who are preparing the first of a special type of boat, the very existence of which would end the peace with the British, if they knew of it. This may be what our English spies are seeking. And it would be a disaster should they even suspect such things exist. It is my duty to protect the boat, much as I would rather bide with you. Besides, spoiled women make for harried men, my love, and well you know it.”

  She could not deny his good sense. “Yes, I do know it, and I am proud that you are being given such important work to do. But I cannot pretend I wouldn’t like it better if the important work was in Paris.”

  At that he laughed. “As would I. Let’s make the best of the time we have together.” He leaned back and pulled her close to him. “I want to spend hours and hours and hours in bed.”

  “Asleep?” she inquired provocatively.

  He grinned. “I hope not.”

  * * *

  “Odette,” said Victoire the next morning as she came into the kitchen shortly after Vernet had left for the week, “do you have an old dress, a very old dress, something that you would not like to wear in public? Perhaps what you wear to wash the walls or—”

  The carpenters had arrived a short time before and the house rang with the sound of hammers and saws.

  Odette paused in kneading bread dough and stared, apprehension hidden in her eyes: she knew Victoire too well to believe that the request was wholly innocent. “Why on earth, Madame—”

  “I have something I must do, and I do not want to draw attention to myself. If I dress like a poor person, with a shawl over my head and a ragged dress, no one will look at me and I may go about my task without undue notice.” She smiled as if this were a regular part of her routine. “May I borrow such a dress?”

  “It will be too large for you,” Odette warned her, as if this would persuade her to abandon whatever she was planning to do.

  “So much the better,” said Victoire eagerly. “Then it will serve to make me appear more desperate. I think I will put some ash on my face, as well.” Her blue eyes were sparkling. Perhaps, she thought distantly, Madame LeNormande had been right about that, at least: Victoire did hunger for adventure. “Odette, the house is going to be too noisy for me to think, let alone accomplish anything. I might as well give myself the chance to test a few of my theories while the carpenters are so busy.”

  “Madame Vernet,” said Odette firmly, “does the master know of this? It would not be fitting for you to do anything so

  “Nonsense,” Victoire said heartily. “I have already ridden camels through the Egyptian desert in Egyptian clothing. What is so shocking about so mild a disguise as an old, ill-fitting dress?” She sat down at the kitchen table and helped herself to an apple. “I am bound for Les Invalides, and those rough soldiers are not the best company. Therefore I will make it appear I am nothing they want, and I may pass safely among them.”

  This argument was more successful; Odette gave an understanding sigh. “Soldiers might know you, Madame Vernet.”

  “Not in shabby clothes with a shawl over my head and ashes on my face. They won’t look at me, and if they do, they will not know me.” She said it with great conviction, warming to her project. “I will not be anything that interests them, and so they will ignore me and I will be able to do the things I must.”

  “And what things are those, Madame?” Odette inquired with exaggerated politeness.

  “It would be better if you didn’t know,” said Victoire candidly. “Just be satisfied knowing that I am working to protect the interests of the First Consul in what is a dangerous time.”

  Odette resumed her kneading. “All right. When I have set this to rise, I will find the dress for you. I warn you that it is filthy and it smells.”

  “Wonderful!” Victoire exclaimed. “Then with my pale coloring I will not have to use anything more than ashes to complete my disguise.” She got up, taking another bite of the apple. “I am going upstairs to change. Bring the dress up as soon as you can. And thank you, Odette. Thank you.”

  “Um,” said Odette dubiously as Victoire hurried out of the kitchen.

  It was nearly an hour later when a stooped figure left the rear of the Vernets’ house; her dirty dress sagged on her frame and the heavy woolen shawl over her head was moth-eaten in several places. She carried a sack slung over her shoulder, and as she went, she called out, “Rags! Any rags!” in a strong Norman accent.

  It took her some time to reach Les Invalides—for she did not approach the place directly, but arrived by a circuitous route that would confuse anyone who watched her. She sat down outside a draper’s shop and spent a while investigating the contents of her sack as a cover for her watching for Querelle.

  He emerged an hour later, dressed more lavishly than was called for. His driving coat had five capes and his hat was worn at a rakish angle. As soon as he stepped into the street, Victoire closed her sack, slung it over her shoulder, and hoped that Querelle would not summon a carriage. In this luck was with her, for Querelle started off on foot with a swinging stride that suggested he intended to walk.

  Victoire had to struggle to keep up with him, but fortunately his dress stood out enough that she could fall as much as half a block behind him and not lose track of him. At last she saw him enter a discreet doorway guarded by a tall African in elaborate dress. Querelle was no stranger here, for the black man greeted him familiarly and said something about Sophie waiting for him. Not far from the door, Victoire sighed and turned away, planning to try again tomorrow.

  * * *

  It was four days later—a Monday—when her persistence at last paid off. With Vernet away she had become increasingly active in order to keep from missing him, so she set about her self-appointed task as soon as she rose. She arrived earlier than usual outside Les Invalides, two shawls gathered around her against the morning drizzle. She had left Odette to deal with the carpenters and hurried along to what she thought of as her watching post, more to relieve herself of the sense of loss than to keep track of Querelle. Vernet would not be back until Thursday, and from what she had been able to coax out of Berthier, he might be sent to Orleans shortly as well.

  For once Querelle emerged dressed pretty much the way most of the men on the street were, in unremarkable clothing and without his fashionable hat. This alerted Victoire as much as the unusually early hour of his departure, and she stumbled along behind him, making sure to keep to the opposite side of the street from where he walked, to be less obvious. This time his destination was not a brothel or a gambling club, as it had been before, but a small inn on the Left Bank, a place called La Plume et Bougie, frequented by men visiting the Université and those who preyed on the innocence of scholars.

  While Victoire huddled near the doorway, Querelle made his way into the taproom, slapping down a coin on one of the small tables and calling for hot wine as he took off his coat and hung it near the fire to dry.

  The landlord complied at once, offering to have his cook prepare a meal for him, while Querelle refused. “I am waiting for a friend,” he declared. “The man is staying here, or so I understand.”

  “What is the name of this man wh
o is staying here?” the landlord inquired.

  “Oh, he knows I am to meet him this morning,” said Querelle lightly. “I want to have something to drink before he and I begin to talk.” He sat down and favored the landlord with a faint, superior smile. “Doubtless he will be here soon.”

  “Will he?” muttered the landlord as he took the coin from the table. “Your wine will be brought directly.”

  “Much appreciated, on such a day,” said Querelle with a gesture toward the door. “A warm fire with hot wine. In drizzle this is heaven.”

  The landlord glowered at this effusiveness, then went to draw a tankard of wine for heating.

  Left to himself, Querelle looked around the taproom with an expression of distaste. He sniffed in disapproval and brushed at his sleeve as if to rid it of any taint of the inn.

  Taking a chance, Victoire edged through the door, then crept into the taproom as if seeking the warmth of the fire—which was only partially a ruse, for her clothes were damp and she was starting to shiver. She pulled a coin from her sack and held it out as the landlord brought the hot wine to Querelle, demanding in a cracking, Norman-accented voice to have hot wine, too. She took care to keep her shawl drawn close around her head to hide her features, although she suspected that Querelle would pay very little attention to her in this disguise.

  The landlord took the coin, but shook his finger at Victoire. “You can’t stay in here for long, Auntie; you’ll stink up the place and drive my customers away.”

  “I paid you,” she said belligerently.

  “And you will have your wine, and then you will have to go.” The landlord shook his head and fetched a second tankard.

  Three men had come into the taproom while the landlord delivered this warning, all of them looking expectant. One of the men was in his late thirties and walked like a soldier, but the other two were younger, seeming more studentlike than soldierly.

  “I believe you are waiting to see us,” said the older man. “I am Etangherbe.” He held out his hand to Querelle. “The others are at the house.”

  “Ah,” said Querelle, rising to shake Etangherbe’s hand. “I’ll have to wait to see your leader.”

  Toutdroit made a hesitant offer. “I can go fetch him, if you like.”

  “That will conclude our business more quickly,” said Querelle, for the first time betraying signs of nervousness. “It might be best if you get him.”

  “Bring him here,” said Etangherbe quickly. “The other place must remain secret for now.”

  Querelle nodded. “It’s better that way,” he agreed promptly. “Very well, and tell him that there is some urgency.” This last was said with a self-important sneer.

  Etangherbe cocked his head. “He’s aware of that, Monsieur.” He chose a table near Querelle’s and sat down.

  Victoire slipped into the fireside nook and pulled her shawls more closely about her, as much to hide her presence as to get warmer.

  The landlord came back into the taproom and demanded what the new arrivals would drink, and accepted their orders for hot wine with grim satisfaction. He glanced toward where Victoire sat and shook his head in annoyance.

  “I’ve been in contact with one of your friends,” said Querelle when the landlord was gone. “You are aware of your friends, aren’t you.”

  “Of course,” said Bouelac, too quickly.

  “We know as much as is wise for us to know,” said Etangherbe, with a warning glance at Bouelac. “Which should be the watchword for us all.”

  “Certainly,” said Querelle confidently as he took a first sip of his hot wine. “In days like this, hot wine thaws everything.”

  “Especially the tongue,” said Etangherbe, looking at Querelle.

  This had no effect on Querelle, who went on, “The time is nearing when you’ll be able to undertake your task. You must feel very proud, knowing that you’ll be the instruments of liberation. It will be the hour of vindication for everyone.”

  “Not if the whole world knows of it,” said Etangherbe. “Jesu et Marie, what is wrong with you? Keep your mouth shut.”

  “Why?” asked Querelle. “We know our purpose and we share the goal. It is good to be able to speak of it from time to time. Don’t tell me you speak of anything else in that secret house of yours.” He glanced in Victoire’s direction. “That’s a street crone, a rag-picker. She probably doesn’t understand anything we say. And if she does, who would she tell? And who would listen to her.” He laughed at the absurdity.

  “There is a landlord here, as well as that woman, and he would not be lightly dismissed if he brought complaints against you.” Etangherbe looked disgusted. “So keep your own counsel, Monsieur, for the cause we all share.”

  “Oh, very well.” Querelle looked truculent but fell silent.

  “As soon as our leader returns, let us go to one of our rooms in this inn. We’ll be able to discuss matters more safely there,” said Etangherbe as if to coax a child out of the sulks. “Whatever message you carry, it is too important to risk it being exposed. That woman may not know anything, but if there is paper she can—”

  “You are very cautious,” said Querelle, and pointed to Victoire. “You there, you rag-picker ...”

  Victoire turned slowly. “You want to speak to me?” she asked in a falsely high voice, making her Norman accent as thick as possible.

  The landlord returned with a tankard of hot wine, which he held out. “Where is the money, Auntie?”

  Victoire tossed two coins to him. “There, and no thanks to you.”

  Bouelac chuckled and said, “An Auntie like you, you must want that wine badly. There’s nothing else to warm you, is there?”

  As much as Victoire wanted to demand of the fellow what he meant, she kept silent and covered this by taking a long draft of the wine. It truly did spread welcome warmth through her and the heat of the tankard was wonderful to feel. Her fingers tingled as the cold diminished and her fear increased.

  “Leave her alone,” recommended Etangherbe. He rocked back on his stool. “Don’t give her any reason to remember us. It would be foolish.”

  Querelle shook his head. “You are too easily frightened,” he declared. “You think that such a woman as this has any knowledge of us, or will be able to recall this day when another week has passed?” He strolled over and looked down at Victoire.

  She drew back, afraid that he would recognize her. “I’m a widow-woman,” she whined. “I don’t bother nobody.”

  “Of course, Auntie, of course,” Querelle soothed her with condescension, taking care not to get too close to her. “You are a sensible country-woman, aren’t you?”

  Victoire crossed herself. “As the Saints know,” she said, making herself appear more countrified than ever.

  “And you would do nothing to hurt good men, would you?” Querelle persisted.

  “Nor anyone else, with my soul to answer,” she said, keeping her face turned down.

  “Oh, yes.” Querelle smiled and glanced toward Etangherbe before he went on. “But what if they offered you gold coins; important men from the Préfecture. What would you tell them?”

  Victoire spat as she had seen old village women do in her youth. “I’ll say nothing to cockerels in uniform.”

  Bouelac sniggered, and the landlord bringing two tankards laughed aloud.

  But Etangherbe watched her narrowly. “What do you expect her to tell you, you fool?” he asked Querelle, and came toward Victoire.

  A spurt of alarm shot through Victoire, sharpening her mind and her senses so that the very odor of the hot wine stung her nose. She backed toward the nook, gesturing them to move back. “I don’t want trouble. I had trouble all my days and I don’t want no more of it. As I am a good Christian woman, I’ll not speak against you.”

  Querelle stood straighter, as if he had vanquished an enemy. His voice was threatenin
g. “See that you remember your promise, Auntie, or we will find you, and there’ll be more trouble than you ever dreamed of. Who will care what happens to one old rag-picker?”

  “Put her out of the house,” said Etangherbe. “We’ll pay the landlord for the tankard. We won’t have to bother with her.”

  “But—” Querelle protested; he was enjoying the opportunity to bully someone.

  “She’s only seen the four of us,” said Etangherbe reasonably. “If she sees the others, then she’ll be more dangerous to us, no matter what she tells you. I know these creatures, and they are as false as cats.”

  “Monsieur!” Victoire protested.

  “That’s being a little extreme, don’t you think?” asked Bouelac, his face paler than it had been.

  “Peasants turned my family over to the Revolutionary Tribunal at Lyons,” said Etangherbe. “They promised to protect them and then they betrayed them, and were well-paid for their treason. She will do what she thinks will best serve her advantage.”

  Victoire cringed, and only part of it was acting. “No, no, I’ll speak to no one but the priest.” She hated saying that, but it was what a rag-picking widow would do.

  “She’s just a rag-picker,” said Bouelac.

  “She could be your Judas,” said Etangherbe. His features were growing harsher and his eyes fixed on Victoire in a way that made her flinch.

  Querelle took Victoire by the shoulder, his fingers digging in. “Come, Auntie, it’s time you were gone. We don’t want to have any dead bodies around this inn, and if you stay much longer, that is bound to happen.” He handed her a franc. “Use this for more wine.” He looked at the others. “To speed her forgetting.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur,” she muttered, allowing herself to be propelled toward the door.