MV02 Death Wears a Crown

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  At the fourth stop—the house of Inspector-General Lucien Vernet—he asked if he might have some water for the horse, for they had been traveling some distance; he explained in broken French that he had a duty to find this Monsieur d’Jaffa and give him a bequest.

  “Well, I know nothing about that,” said Odette, her recognition of Roustam-Raza well concealed. “But you are welcome to water for the horse. The well is in the back.” She hesitated, then said, “Have you tried at Les Invalides? Many of those poor men were in Egypt. Someone there must know where he is.”

  “No. But you are right. They must know something.” He beamed and sala’amed in a way that would have embarrassed his relatives had they seen it. “May Allah thank you for the kindness to my horse.”

  “Humph,” said Odette as she closed the door, then hurried down the hall past the carpenters, toward the rear of the house.

  Roustam-Raza, looking unhappy in his ridiculous get-up, was giving D’or water and screening the rear of the wagon from the street. He looked up as Odette rushed out of the kitchen door, and after signalling to the housekeeper to be silent, called very softly, “Madame, you are home.”

  Victoire pulled aside the flap and slid out of the wagon, taking care to keep in the shelter of Roustam-Raza’s enhanced bulk. She glanced up at him, smiling. “Thank you, and may Allah—”

  “Give me your blessing later, Madame,” said Roustam-Raza quietly, “when we have completed our tasks and Napoleon is safe from his enemies.”

  She made a gesture of chastened assent, then hurried into the kitchen door, which Odette held open for her. She resisted the urge to wave to Roustam-Raza as he sighed and led D’or away, for even so minor a movement would attract the attention of watchers, if they had any.

  “Heaven be praised,” whispered Odette as she hastened Victoire into the large pantry. “I was afraid that the worst had happened to you, Madame. I was certain that you had come to harm.” She crossed herself and stared at Victoire. “You must have come to harm, to look so.”

  Victoire’s laughter was more nervous than she liked. “It is not as bad as it seems,” she declared. “In fact, it isn’t bad at all.” She looked down at the dress. “But this will have to be disposed of. I think burning it would be wisest, and not because of all the rents and smuts, but—” She put her hand to her brow. Her headache had faded after she ate, but now she was growing so tired that she did not know how she could hold two thoughts together, let alone remain on her feet. “I ... I’m a little tired,” she said.

  “You look half-dead,” Odette stated. “What happened?” But before Victoire could answer the question, she hurried on. “No. Never mind. You will tell me that later, when you are rested. You must have a bath. You smell quite dreadful, Madame. And your arms, your poor arms! I will find the salve.” She put her hands on her hips. “I will bring the bathtub in here and I will see that you are washed, all without the carpenters discovering it.”

  “Sensible,” said Victoire, starting to yawn. She breathed out slowly, without apology, then said, “Roustam-Raza informed me that Vernet has returned early.”

  “That he has,” said Odette with feeling. “And he has been beside himself with worry for your sake. I will send a messenger—”

  Victoire gestured no. “We must do nothing to alert the men who are watching this house. If they discover I am back ...” She sighed. “And I must visit the First Consul at five this afternoon. So you must not let me sleep on and on. Let me get clean, have an omelette, and then rest for a couple of hours. You can dress me and arrange my hair in less than an hour, can’t you?”

  “Madame Vernet, you cannot expect to be out of bed again before tomorrow morning,” Odette declared, taking care not to raise her voice.

  Now a little of Victoire’s spirit flared. “You are not the only soldier’s wife here, Odette. I will not sleep while Napoleon is in danger and there is anything I can do that will protect him.” She started to work the buttons down the front of the dress. “So prepare the bath, or I may fall asleep where I stand.”

  “You husband will want to know you are here,” Odette warned as she started toward the door.

  “He will learn it soon enough. When I leave to speak with the First Consul, send word to him to meet me there.”

  Odette tapped the door latch. “And General Murat?”

  “Has he been dragged into this?” she asked, and answered her own question. “Oh, yes. That’s what Roustam-Raza said. Better find a way to get a message to him, as well, then.” She cocked her head. “I will think of some way to get out of this house without anyone noticing.” This last was said to the closed door, and the distant metallic clang of the bathtub as Odette began lugging it toward the pantry.

  LESS FEARFUL of the connection to the Old Regime than the Director and Consuls that had preceded him, Napoleon had moved into the palace, bringing his bristling energy with him; at the Crown’s peak of elegance and power this building and grounds had never seen so much activity.

  Louis’ army had amounted to almost a hundred thousand men, most on garrison duty: the Republic’s army was four times that size. Messengers in the colorful uniforms of the hussars and chasseurs galloped through the gates at all hours of the day or night. A battalion of the Consular Guard infantry in their tall bearskins drilled on the swath of green that once served as a croquet court. Two brass cannon, well-shined and quite operational, reminded all who entered the palace grounds of the “whiff of grapeshot” that began Napoleon’s rise to power.

  The long, arcing drive that led to the main entrance was crowded with gilded carriages. The entire family had gathered for the upcoming Coronation and vied with each other to be elegantly and extravagantly served.

  With over 150 regiments and an equal number of ships, France had almost as many men under arms as all the rest of Europe. Even at night during peace time the palace saw a constant parade of couriers, their arrival time dictated by distance, not the hour. Napoleon Buonaparte himself slept fitfully, more often than not arising hours before the sun to dictate letters and directives to bleary-eyed secretaries.

  The straight drive leading to the side entrances of the palace was hidden by a double row of bushes and trees. Along it rumbled carts and wagons laden with the food and luxuries required to maintain a palace housing almost two hundred guests and servants. At the entrance to this tradesman’s lane was a guard station, where a sergeant screened each person wishing to enter while four private soldiers searched their wagons or loads. Victoire was pleased to see the care with which the men checked each delivery, but she hoped that Roustam-Raza had ensured her own quick passage through their post. After all she had been through she had no desire to be caught in the long line of carters, tailors, and gardeners awaiting permission to enter, where Montrachet’s spies might observe her.

  Victoire emerged from the landaulet near the side entrance. It was a cloudy afternoon and a bitter wind was picking up as the ill-defined shadows lengthened; Victoire’s caped traveling coat and her warmest afternoon dress—a simple wool twill of green and black with a corsage al hussar and a complicated set of pleats falling from the high waist—were not proof against it. The two hours’ sleep she had garnered had been sufficient only to make her aware of how exhausted she had become. Her eyes were hollow and she was pinched about the mouth. There was a scratch along her left cheek and a bruise was forming on her jaw. Giving up on more fashionable modes, Odette had dressed Victoire’s hair in a simple braid coronet. “For you may be certain that in spite of his lack of concern for his own appearance, the First Consul is a stickler for everyone else’s.” These words rang in Victoire’s ears as she pulled her coat about her.

  It was not Roustam-Raza who came to greet her, but General Joachim Murat, blue eyes thunderous. He bowed to her in excellent form, kissed her hand with absolute propriety, signalled the coachman to take the landaulet into the stable yard, then said under his br
eath, “What the Devil were you trying to do?”

  Murat was dressed in another of his custom-made uniforms; it was loosely modelled on those of the hussars, the light cavalry having by far the most ostentatious uniforms in the army. The pale blue pelisse was lined with a white fur that contrasted well with the deep blue and heavily gold-braided jacket beneath. The gold inexpressibles were tucked into white riding boots.

  “I wasn’t trying to do—” she began, keeping her voice low, only to be waved to silence.

  “Tell me later. Whatever the answer is, it will be outrageous in any case.” He put her hand through the crook of his arm and led her into the palace, behaving as if they were exchanging nothing more than pleasantries about the weather. “We were worried nigh unto madness, Madame,” he whispered.

  “So was I for a time,” Victoire said, and raised her voice, “Yes, I am pleased that some of the Swedish ladies are making it more fashionable to be fair, but I will continue to long for dark tresses.”

  The two officers walking by smirked, saluted Murat, and continued on.

  A little of Murat’s affronted manner lessened. “Well, at least you’ve kept your wits about you.”

  “I’m not a ninny,” she snapped in an undervoice.

  Murat relented a bit more; he could not contain a rueful smile. “No, you’re not that.”

  “And I know I look a dowd, and my skin is the color of glue, but this cannot wait. Believe me, Murat, I would not have asked to see Napoleon if I were not absolutely certain that he is in grave and immediate danger.” She was able to keep from raising the level of her voice, but her face flushed.

  “Oh, dear,” said Murat shaking his head. “Now they will say that I tried to compromise you and that you have put me in my place.”

  She looked around and realized at once that Murat was right. “What should I do?”

  “Laugh, if you can. Then they will decide I made a remark that was too bold.” He continued beside her, his eyes fixed on a point about six strides ahead. His next words were louder. “When I told it to your husband, he thought it funny.”

  Victoire could not make herself laugh but she was able to simulate indignation. “You military men! There are times I wonder how your families can bear you with your rough humor.”

  “Sometimes they can’t,” said Murat, and motioned her to take the next turn. He lowered his voice again. “We will meet Napoleon in an unexpected place.”

  “That seems sensible,” Victoire said. “I know some pieces of this puzzle but not enough of them to make me think Napoleon is protected.”

  “So I gather,” said Murat, and opened the door leading into the music room.

  Napoleon Buonaparte was standing beside the fortepiano. In his hands he held a number of papers, none of which were music. He was reading quickly, frowning as he did. As always Victoire was taken by the sheer magnetism of the man. Even when he acted like a petulant child, which she had seen too often in the past years, he had a way about him. She had heard about Napoleon’s ability to inspire men in battle from Vernet and caught a glimpse of it as he sat there glancing idly through a stack of papers.

  No taller than Victoire, Napoleon was dressed in the plain blue uniform of the Consular Guard. It carried no marks of rank, nor any of the numerous decorations commonly worn by most members of this prestigious unit. If it were not for his height—the minimum height for the guard was six feet, and Napoleon was the single exception to that rule—and piercing eyes there was no way to tell this was the man who controlled the fate of France, and possibly all Europe.

  Suddenly he thrust all the papers onto the fortepiano bench and looked up as if he had been startled by a loud noise. “Murat.” He strode forward as Victoire curtsied. “Madame Vernet. Roustam-Raza tells me that you have important information.” He regarded her with a frown. “You’re not in your best looks, Madame.”

  “No, I’m not,” Victoire agreed.

  Napoleon signalled to Murat to guard the door. “I want you to stay to hear this. You’ll only try to find out everything in any case.”

  “True,” said Murat, and took up his post directly in front of the tall pocket doors, his gloved hands resting on the latches behind him.

  “You told my servant that there are spies here in Paris. You claim they are here to kill me. Is that correct?” Napoleon was curt at the best of times and often lapsed into outright rudeness. “You are becoming a harbinger, Madame Vernet.”

  “Better a harbinger than no warning at all, First Consul,” she said with equal directness, knowing that most women would be terrified by now. Truth to tell, she was apprehensive, but had learned from her overbearing father that buckling under such tactics only caused their severity to increase. “Would you rather I keep this to myself?”

  “Powers preserve, no,” Napoleon expostulated. He frowned down at fine carpets patterned in the Egyptian style. “Very clever, Murat, to choose this room for our meeting,” he murmured. “Reminds me of another warning.”

  From his position at the door Murat chuckled.

  Napoleon looked directly at Victoire once more. “So. Tell me how you have arrived at this certainty of yours. Not that half the nobility of France and all of Europe would not be glad of my death.”

  “I ... I am aware of my husband’s work, of course.” She steadied herself and continued. “As you must know, he was sent to the coast to investigate rumors of secret English landings. At the time, it was assumed that the negotiations with the Low Countries were the object of their efforts; either that or the disposition of the fleet. But there was no trace of these men anywhere. Some in the administration probably suspected a hoax or a rumor that had been blown out of proportion. Some inferred this was a British attempt to frighten us into chasing phantoms,” she said carefully, aware that the first proponent of this theory was Napoleon himself. “Had I not been attacked at a posting inn near Abbeville, I might have agreed. As it was, I began to consider the possibility that the men who landed were bound for Paris.” She paused. “I can explain my assumptions more fully if you like, First Consul.”

  “Perhaps later,” said Napoleon. “Continue.”

  “As you wish.” She went on to describe her encounter with Querelle, her observation of Pichegru, and her subsequent actions. “I did not realize that there was more than one or two men involved, and I did not anticipate that I would have to escape from them.” She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly tight. “I believe I would have proceeded differently had I known how many were involved, or how well-organized they are. I’ve deduced, from what I heard, that there’s a group of spies and that they have been in Paris some little time.”

  “And you say you’re certain that there are more?” Napoleon said.

  “From what I could gather during their conversations, I must suppose that there are. Perhaps ten or more.” She would have liked to sit down. Her bruised leg was getting very sore and being tired only made it worse. But Napoleon was starting to pace, which meant she would be expected to remain on her feet. “I know that they receive messages from someone well-placed in the government and that messages from this person may be carried by Pichegru, and definitely Querelle, to these spies.”

  Napoleon was looking seriously displeased. “And you do not know who this person is?”

  “No, I don’t; I can identify only Montrachet and Querelle both by face and name, but as to the others, I can identify face only, or guess,” said Victoire. “I could speculate, but that would not be worth much, would it?”

  “I suppose it wouldn’t,” said Napoleon, the speed of his pacing increasing.

  “You have the men around you to discover who these traitors are,” said Murat. “It could be done very, very discreetly.” He paused and when Napoleon said nothing, he went on. “If we detained Querelle—”

  “Querelle!” Napoleon exclaimed. “The man is nothing more than a hanger-on, a would-be
general, nothing more. This is idiotic.”

  “But the fellow is an idiot,” Murat reminded his brother-in-law.

  Napoleon laughed twice in short, harsh barks. “You’re a clever one, Murat. Your seminary time wasn’t wasted, except for the religion.” He swung back toward Victoire. “So, Madame Vernet, do you agree with the Marshall? Do you think we ought to send our own spies out to watch every important figure in—” He gestured as if to include the whole of the Paris.

  “I think it would be wise,” said Victoire seriously.

  “And the utmost folly,” Napoleon snapped. “These men do not want to be the object of questions and investigations. At such a time as this, anything of that sort would serve no purpose but to aggravate those men who have served me well.”

  “I realize that, First Consul,” said Victoire carefully. “And I do not disagree with your concerns, but I’m afraid that if you don’t begin a thorough investigation, you’ll be taking your own life in your hands.”

  “Ha!” He turned on his heel and went back in the other direction, toward the ormolu harp. “You’ll never make a proper general’s wife if you talk that way, Madame.” He moved restlessly about the room, a faint line between his brows. “Constant is waiting for me. He is annoyed if I make him rush.”