“I ... I hope so,” said Odette.
The full implication of Odette’s answer was staggering to Vernet. He gripped the kitchen table, then mastered the dread that threatened to overcome him. “I will need to know everything you can tell me. At once. And then I will visit Fouche and Berthier. And Murat,” he added after a slight hesitation. “She must be found.”
“Please God,” said Odette in a fatalistic voice, and resigned herself to betraying Victoire’s confidence, for the thought of harm coming to Victoire was more terrible to Odette than Victoire’s annoyance.
* * *
In this part of Paris the houses leaned close together and Victoire was able to make her way from rooftop to rooftop the length of the block where La Plume et Bougie was located. She went carefully, holding on to chimneys and dormers and the occasional tree-branch, all the while fearing to hear the outcry of discovery. Her dress was clinging to her in the damp, weighing her down and making her fret with every small jump she encountered. Would she be able to cross? Would the dress drag her down? Would someone see her and give the alarm? There, at least, she had some luck: it was growing dark and the slow rain made people passing on the road below unwilling to look up; she remained undetected as she was made increasingly clumsy by exhaustion and the sodden dress. At every moment she feared the outcry of her captors.
At the end of the block she discovered she could not climb down, and the distance across the narrow street was too great for her to attempt jumping. After a short, frustrated moment, she decided to continue on to right, and hope that at the next corner there might be a way to descend safely to the street.
Her purchase on the roofs was becoming more precarious as the thickening fog made every surface slick and dangerous, and so she searched as she went for some safe opportunity to get down. She found it when she had nearly reached the next corner of the block: there was a house, older than the rest, with a bakery and a pantry behind the main building. There was no light in any of the windows she could see, and no smoke rose from the three chimneys of the place. Victoire ground her teeth together and made herself continue. As she reached this ancient house, she slithered her way down the tiles to the base of what had once been a watchtower but was now nothing more than a masonry stump on the side of the house. From there she was able to make her way down over the rough stones to the low roof of the bakery, doing her best to ignore the further damage all this did to her dress. Here she made a last swing away from the eaves and hung from her arms as she gauged the distance to the stones below. Satisfied that she was in no serious danger, she let go, and tumbled the short distance to the ground.
As she straightened up, assessing the extent of damage done to her dress, she gathered her shawls around her ruined clothes and looked about the courtyard for the gate she had seen from the roof. She moved toward it at a clumsy run, her knees stiff, her back and shoulders sore. Her vision swam and she blinked in the darkness to clear her eyes. She grabbed the latch and slipped into the alleyway, and from there, she made her way to the street. In spite of her fatigue she felt renewed determination and growing anger. She had to stop Montrachet and Querelle. She was so tired her arms were shaking.
It was her plan to trudge home, trusting to her disguise to protect her and her steady activity to keep her warm enough to avoid the worst of the cold, but after going half a dozen blocks, she realized that it would not be possible for her to go so far before she collapsed. Some other haven must be found.
Another thought occurred to her: Montrachet knew who she was; undoubtedly once her escape was discovered he would send his men to intercept her before she ever reached her door. With Vernet gone, Odette, too, would be in danger if Victoire attempted to enter the house. Then all her striving would be for nothing, or worse than nothing. Choking back a sob of rage and fatigue, she forced herself to start looking for a place she could hide.
Two blocks later Victoire found what she sought—a livery stable, the forge damped for the night and only a groom to tend the horses. Locating an alcove near the stable gate, she slipped inside it, out of the weather, and set herself to watching. She hid in the shadows, waiting as the groom downed the greater part of two bottles of wine and making her plans as she fought off the chill drowsiness that threatened to overcome her.
When the groom had got to the stage where he not only could not remember the words, but the tune as well of “Sur le Route,” she crept out of her hiding place, and keeping to the shadows, made her way back through the stalls to the rear of the stable, where four taffy-gold Belgian draft horses were confined. Like most of the coldbloods, the horse in the stall she chose was enormous and friendly. He nudged Victoire and sniffed at her, letting her lean against him to absorb his warmth.
“Do you mind?” she asked softly, “if I share the stall?” It was a pity, she thought, that she could find nothing to eat, but the nearest food was in the basket beside the drunken groom, and she could not take the risk of stealing any. Odette would worry, but she was too worn out to attempt anything before the morning.
The Belgian whickered and went back to lipping the last of the hay in his manger while Victoire made a nest for herself in the straw.
* * *
“I don’t know what more I can tell you,” Vernet said to Murat as they sat in the Marshall’s carriage, bound for Fouche’s ministry at a brisk trot that was only possible at this late hour of the night, when the streets were clear of traffic. He had found Murat at a fete given by Josephine, a company so grand that Vernet had felt ashamed to intrude: only his frantic concern from his wife gave him the incentive to send a note with the footman to Murat. “Our housekeeper told you everything she told me, and I ...”
Murat nodded once, his mouth in a tight line. “You need not remind me of your wife’s determination. I’ve seen it for myself.” He was resplendent in a dress uniform of white-and-gold, the fabric cut to make the most of his shoulders and the turn of his calf; his dark brown hair was cut in the Classical style, similar to Napoleon’s. But while the First Consul affected the mode to conceal increasing baldness, Murat was blessed by thick, glossy waves, and he was vain as a girl about them. At the moment his hair was in disorder and he paid no attention to the damage the swaying carriage was doing to the swags of braid across his chest. He glowered; his manner was brusque in a way that would have surprised his wife. “She’s a wonder, Madame Vernet is, but I can think of few women who are as fixed in their purpose as she.”
“True,” said Vernet quietly.
“It’s unfortunate that she did not let anyone know the subject of her investigation,” Murat said a bit later as the carriage neared the Ministry of Public Safety.
“But she didn’t,” said Vernet, who was doing his best to keep from giving in to despair.
“You know,” Murat said after a short, thoughtful pause, “it could be that she is keeping away for a reason other than the one we both fear.”
Vernet was ready to cling to any hope that would banish the hurt consuming him. “How do you mean?” he demanded.
“Well, if she found out something that made her think she might put you in danger, might she not stay away?” Murat made his expression as convincing as he could, but he saw that it was not enough.
“She didn’t expect me back for another two or three days,” said Vernet. “There was no pressing reason to protect me.”
Murat went on doggedly. “But perhaps if she was captured, they did not know who she was, or if they are suspicious of her, she wants to make certain there is no connection made between her and you.” He leaned forward as the coachman reined in his team at the door to the Ministry of Public Safety.
“Why?” asked Vernet bluntly.
“Who can say?” Murat countered. “But it is the sort of thing she would do, isn’t it, if she was worried that you could be drawn into hazards by her actions.”
“It is,” Vernet allowed as the door was ope
n and the steps let down by the footman. “But if that’s so, then she is dealing with very dangerous men.” The worry which had begun to lift from his countenance returned at once.
“Possibly so,” said Murat as he motioned to Vernet to get out first. “But it would mean that she is acting with her usual prudence, and that is encouraging.”
“Assuming that she is able to act, that she is free to act, and that she still is able to ... to have her wits about her,” Vernet said. He stood aside for Murat. “What I cannot make myself believe is that—”
Murat laid a hand on his shoulder to quiet him. “Actually, Lucien, neither of us knows anything. We are indulging in speculation so that we will deceive ourselves into doing what we can to help her.” He turned to tell his coachman to get the team out of the weather, then pointed Vernet in the direction of the Ministry. “And the first thing we can do is speak with Fouche. After that, we ought to consider going to Berthier, and then we will have to decide who best to address next.” He consulted the watch hanging from his satin waistcoat. “Given the hour, we’d better plan to deal with Berthier first thing in the morning. It is already nearing eleven and by the time we are through here, it will be too late to rouse the man.”
Vernet paused as he started up the steps. “Yes. That’s sensible; the hour is too late to make much difference tonight. You’re right, but—”
“Yes, I know,” said Murat as he followed Vernet up the stairs.
VICTOIRE AWOKE to a loud shout and the sight of a pitchfork leveled at her chest; a boy of about nine in smock and culottes stood over her, blocking her access to the Belgian draft horse as if he feared she would vault onto the placid creature and flee. “You get up now,” he ordered in a frightened treble.
“If you will move that pitchfork I will certainly do so,” said Victoire as reasonably as she was able. In spite of the scrapes and hurts and complaining muscles, she pulled herself to a sitting position, keeping a handsbreadth away from the tines.
The stable boy stared, for in spite of the ruined clothing and distressing appearance, he recognized her accent as good and her manners as better than what was usually found in these streets. “All right, Auntie,” he said, taking a step back, but holding the pitchfork at the ready. “You tell me what you’re doing here in D’or’s stall. Then I’ll decide what to do.”
“I was seeking shelter for the night,” Victoire said quietly. “As you see, I have nothing to protect me from the cold and rain.” She was thinking rapidly, sizing up the boy and trying to decide how best to win him over.
“Your dress is tattered,” the boy agreed without relinquishing his weapon.
“And my hands are cut,” she appended, holding them out to show the bruises and blood. “I have escaped from danger.” She remained sitting, afraid that if she stood up the boy might do more than threaten her with the pitchfork.
“Or the beating of someone you cheated,” suggested the boy. He used one hand to wipe his ill-cut hair out of his face. “How do I know you are not a thief, or worse?”
“You know because a thief would conceal injuries from you, and would try to flee, which I have not done,” said Victoire calmly.
“Do you think so? When my master comes we’ll see what he thinks.” His jaw set firmly.
“And when will that be?” she asked. “If he is coming, let it be soon. He may be more understanding of the peril I face.”
“My master will be here at noon: he is delivering a matched pair to Inspector-General Suchet.” He said this with pride, then stared at her in speculation. “What danger could a woman of your sort be in?” For a youngster there was an unexpected worldliness in his question. “Tell me that.”
“Fine,” said Victoire, and quickly thought of an acceptable version of the truth; she sensed the boy’s keen sensitivity to lies. “I am a soldier’s wife, and my husband is posted elsewhere.” That much was true. “I have been hounded by his enemies.” While that was not quite as true, it was not entirely a lie, either. “His enemies are also enemies of the First Consul,” she went on again, returning to the whole truth. “And it is necessary that I ... I warn him of these enemies.”
The boy scoffed. “You, warn Napoleon himself?”
Victoire had anticipated this, and decided to try the one ploy that had occurred to her the night before while she fell asleep trying to puzzle out how to report what she learned without going near her house, Fouche’s ministry, Berthier, or Murat, all of whom she feared were under observation. “No, of course not.” She hoped she sounded as modest as the boy thought correct. “But I do want to reach the Mameluke who guards him. You know, the tall man in the turban, the Egyptian?” She saw skepticism dawning in the boy’s face again, and she hurried on, “My husband and I were in Egypt with Napoleon, and my husband came to know the Mameluke. His name is Roustam-Raza, and he was a gift to Napoleon, to serve him all his life.” Again this was the truth, and she hoped it would be enough.
“What would he want with you?” demanded the boy.
“He would come to help me—”
The boy threw his head back and laughed. “Right, a man like that listening to a woman! They say those Egyptians keep their wives in pens, like ewes. What would he want with you?”
“—and he could warn Napoleon of his enemies,” said Victoire, refusing to give in, then realized that her stubbornness was turning the boy against her. She faltered. “I know I must look like a drab, and I can understand why you would not trust what I tell you. But think of this, I beg you: what if everything I have said is true and the First Consul is really in danger. What if his enemies succeed against him because they were unknown? Would you be able to bear it, knowing that you might have given the warning, and did not?”
“You never could do that,” he said, but less confidently.
“Not without your help, I could not,” she said with utter sincerity.
The boy’s eyes had become large and intent. “Could it be so?”
“Yes,” Victoire stated. “It is so. Napoleon’s enemies are real.” She saw the single, slight nod the boy gave. “With his Coronation approaching, those who oppose him are likely to strive to act before he can be crowned.”
“We have had a king before,” the boy said.
“Not like this man,” corrected Victoire. “Consul for Life or Emperor, Napoleon is France, and his enemies are the enemies of France.”
“You don’t talk like the women who gather rags. You sound like the fancy ones who ride in the carriages.” The boy narrowed his eyes as he considered what she said. “You are some man’s mistress and he has grown tired of you.”
“It is possible, but I am not. My husband is an officer on Napoleon’s staff. He often works with Fouche and Marshall Murat.”
This reference to the Governor of Paris had the, desired effect. “Very well,” he said. “If I am to go to this Egyptian, how do I know you will not flee when I am out the door and I will receive nothing but a thrashing for what I have done?”
“I will give you my word that I will remain here unless the First Consul’s enemies find me, and if they do, I will find a way to leave a message on this stall. I will scratch out the word for enemies,” she offered.
“Which you could do in any case,” said the boy cannily. “And my master here would dismiss me for being taken in.” Nevertheless he motioned to Victoire to get up. “This Egyptian will know not to beat me?”
“If you bow to him this way”—she performed a sala’am as she had learned it in Egypt—“and say that you are the messenger of Madame Vernet, he will hear you out.” Then she remembered the locket she wore, and struggled to unfasten it, flinching at the hurt in her torn fingers. At last the clasp opened and she pulled the chain from around her neck. “Here. Show this to him after you greet him. He will recognize it. And you may keep it as payment. It is gold.”
The stable boy seized the locket and stare
d at it, suddenly avaricious. “Real gold?”
“Real gold,” she affirmed. “And if you think to keep it and do nothing, remember that locket would then be worth thirty pieces of silver.”
“Ah.” The boy looked up sharply. “All right,” he said, his sense of adventure winning out over both greed and apprehension. “Show me how to do that again, and I will do this errand for you.”
Victoire sala’amed again, very slowly. “Do this, and give him the locket and the greetings of Madame Vernet. Go to the coaching door of the Tuileries and ask one of the footmen to fetch him.”
“Why should they do that?” asked the boy suspiciously.
“Because you will give them this,” she said with a sigh, and handed over her last two coins. “And you will say you bring word from an Egyptian veteran.”
The boy thought this over. “All right. But if they do not do this, I will not stay to be disciplined.” He looked over at D’or. “He’s branded, and if you take him, my master will set the bailiffs on you.”
“I will not take him,” Victoire promised.
“What is the name of the Egyptian again?” he asked.
“Roustam-Raza. He is a Mameluke.” She repeated this. “If you say his name, the footmen will be impressed.”
“Right.” The boy nodded, repeated the name, and finally lowered the pitchfork. “You had better be here when I return, with or without this Mameluke.”
“I will, or there will be something scratched on the wall,” she said, sinking back down into the straw again, thinking that while the boy was gone she could make herself useful by cleaning the stall and bringing fresh bedding. “If I am gone more than three hours, you had—” he started, doing all he could to appear threatening.
“You will be back in less than two,” said Victoire, hoping it was so.
MV02 Death Wears a Crown Page 18
