“Then why not arrest him?” Victoire asked reasonably. “You have Querelle, you have Moreau—”
“It still horrifies me, that Moreau should be caught up in treason.” He yawned. “We are going to move him to a more secure prison, and keep a guard at his cell around the clock; he might try to do away with himself, or so Fouche thinks.”
“And you? Do you think he might make such an attempt?” Victoire inquired.
“I think it will depend on whether we find out who his superior is,” said Vernet.
“And do you or Fouche have any notions about that?” she asked.
“Not yet. Tomorrow, when you come to identify the prisoners, we may have more information.” He stretched and shifted position, preparing to fall asleep.
But Victoire had more questions. “Is there anyone more suspect than anyone else?”
“Not yet,” said Vernet, no longer concentrating.
“Talleyrand supports alliance with England,” Victoire pointed out to him. “It would be very satisfying to discover that Talleyrand was the traitor.”
“That’s because you don’t like him,” murmured Vernet, fading into sleep.
“You don’t like him either,” said Victoire, and would have gone on if Vernet had not begun to snore. She gave him a single, exasperated stare, then pinched out the bedside candles and lay back, her mind fixed on all that Vernet had told her. It was hours before she finally drifted asleep.
“THE FELLOW in the solitary cell, that is Claude Montrachet,” Victoire told her husband and Fouche the next morning. She was astonished at the intensity of the revulsion that went through her at the mention of his name. He was the last of the prisoners she had been asked to try to identify, and when she caught sight of him a hard fist closed in her chest. She had been grateful to be taken to the antechamber. where she would not have to see Montrachet again.
“The one you shot?” asked Vernet incredulously.
Her face was grim. “The same,” she said, and went on. “I recognize a few of the others.” She looked around the whitewashed walls of the antechamber where they waited. “I will make a statement now, if you like.”
“It would be welcome, if you are sufficiently collected in your thoughts,” said Fouche, and went to summon his secretary.
Vernet looked truly upset. “I did not realize that ... It never occurred to me that one of these men might ... might be the person—”
Victoire laid her hand on his. “He only threatened. We will be certain he is punished, between us.” It was not possible for her to smile, but a look of harsh satisfaction came into her eyes. “See that he does not slip through your fingers.”
“No fear of that,” said Vernet, and leaned down to kiss his wife’s hand. “I’m sorry, my love; I had not thought this would be such an ordeal.”
She did her best to shrug, then regarded him steadily. “I don’t think any of us anticipated this, Vernet.” She was about to change the subject, when she recollected something she had been meaning to ask Vernet since the evening before. “Among those arrested is there an Englishman named Sackett-Hartley?”
Vernet chuckled at the unwieldy name. “No, nothing like. Why?”
“Because I overheard mention of him while ... while they had me at the inn. I got the impression that he was part of the company.” She had taken a handkerchief from her reticule and was pulling it between her fingers. “You would think that someone with such a name would stand out.”
“Probably one of their contacts, a messenger or a seaman or something of the sort,” said Vernet, dismissing the matter.
“Possibly. Or another spy,” said Victoire, with the increasing certainty that she was right. “There may well be more of them in Paris, if we do not have this Sackett-Hartley with the others.”
“But Victoire,” said Vernet at his most reasonable, which made Victoire want to strangle him, “there are so many other explanations. You yourself have said that this company of spies is already dangerously large. Why should there be more of them, when they need fewer in their company as it is?”
She stared at him in exasperation. “Consider, Vernet. We are assuming that they are wholly under the command of their traitorous leader, this unknown high-ranking Frenchman. But it may be that they feared precisely what has happened here, and because of that sent a second ... a second wave of assassins and spies, to take over the despicable task if any mischance overcame them.”
“You are making it too complicated, my love,” said Vernet. “You are being cautious and prudent, and these blackguards are neither of those things.” He was about to expand on this when the door opened once again and Fouche, followed by his secretary, came back into the room.
“And now, Madame Vernet,” said Fouche with a slight, formal bow, “let us begin at the beginning, when you accompanied your husband to Calais and Dunkerque.” He was not a man who smiled easily but he was able to make his expression appear cordial, and Victoire was willing to take the effort for the deed.
“All right,” she said, her throat feeling dry. She did her best to clear it, knowing it would take some fair amount of time to give her statement. “We go back to the beginning of last September.”
* * *
The carpenters had moved to the higher floor and now the sound of hammering and sawing came from above, making the parlor echo like a manufactory. Victoire sat in a high-backed chair and did her best to concentrate on what Murat was trying to tell her. From his arrival half an hour before the din had been almost continuous.
“It does not look promising for Bernadotte, I am afraid,” said Murat, raising his voice to be heard. “It appears he is implicated.” He was in regular uniform today, without the formal excesses he enjoyed on occasion. His boots were glossy with polish and his dark tunic had only a single medal on it, the one he had been given two years ago, shortly after Victoire had saved his life.
“But there is nothing to implicate Bernadotte,” protested Victoire. She was wearing a simple housedress chosen more for comfort and warmth than fashion; she had not expected Murat to call upon her that afternoon—or anyone else, for that matter.
“Probably true enough,” said Murat, taking another slice of soft Saint-Andre cheese. “But Fouche is more convinced with each passing hour that Bernadotte is his man. Or possibly Desirée his woman.”
“Ah!” said Victoire, pouncing. “Is that likely, do you think?”
“More likely than Bernadotte being the traitor,” said Murat. “She has never forgiven Napoleon for jilting her. Although why she should feel so singled out, I can’t imagine. She is not the first or the last, and everyone knows it. Napoleon takes and discards women all the time. He is not a constant lover, but for Josephine. And even that may change in time.” He took a short sigh. “Madame, let me tell you that those carpenters are the very servants of the Devil.”
“Yes, I think so, too,” said Victoire, and poured more coffee for him. “But they will be finished before much longer, and then this will be a suitable habitation. And since it could not have happened had you not come to my aid, you will have to endure my thanks.”
“Readily,” said Murat. “I’ve wanted to tell you how much improved the place is. You need not fear to bring any of Vernet’s superiors here; they will recognize the touch of one who has good taste and does not waste the ready.” He sipped at his coffee, and when he spoke again he had shifted the subject. “Your report to Fouche makes very interesting reading. I had the opportunity to skim through it, and I take leave to tell you, Victoire, that you are too careless of your own safety.”
“Would you not have done the same?” Victoire asked with all the appearance of innocence she could muster.
“I am a soldier of France. I am expected to do such things. And do not plead circumstances to me. I am well-aware that you had not accurately anticipated the number of spies you had to deal with. My objection is tha
t you were dealing with any of them at all. A police agent should have been doing what you did; those fellows are trained to that work and they appreciate the risks.” He did his best to look huffy and failed. “I wish you could instill spirit like yours into some of our officers.”
“The worried ones, or the malign ones?” asked Victoire audaciously in order to cover her growing embarrassment at his praise.
“Both. All of them.” He accepted more coffee. “I had a word with Berthier this morning about Bernadotte.”
“And?” said Victoire.
“And he is inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt for the time being. He has said that if it can be shown that evidence points to another he will gladly do all that he may to convince Napoleon that Fouche, while dedicated and persistent, is occasionally wrong.” He selected his words very carefully, and added, “Faenum habet in cornu, my friend.”
Victoire recognized the Latin warning. “I find it hard to think of Fouche as a dangerous bull, but you may be right. I’ll tread carefully. Dictum sapienti sat est.”
“Precisely.” He was silent a short while. “Is it permitted to ask if you have a plan to exonerate Bernadotte?”
“It’s permitted,” said Victoire with a slight laugh. “And to keep you from being worried I will say that I intend to become more interested in what Desirée is doing. She ought to accept me as one of her court—she is dark-haired and dark-eyed, so what will I look next to her but washed out.”
Murat snorted with laughter. “I am very pleased that I am not often on the rough side of your tongue, Madame.”
“You’ve done nothing to put you there,” said Victoire reasonably.
“Then I pray God that day never comes. Though there are men who are the more ardent when their innamorate are most arbitrary.” He made a rueful gesture. “Only a few of us are fortunate enough to know love that’s as kind as it is good.” He cleared his throat. “I trust Vernet is aware that he is one of the happy few to have a wife who is his staunchest supporter yet at the same time does not slight the accomplishments of others.”
This was too effusive for Victoire to handle, and she turned the conversation back to its original course. “Desirée, to the contrary of your overly perfect model, has chosen to treat many people badly, and she cannot expect to escape unscathed. My only regret is that Bernadotte may once again have to suffer for her actions.” She leaned back in her chair, a bit startled by the harshness of her feelings. Until this moment she had been unaware of how deeply offended she was by Desirée’s languid condemnation.
Murat regarded her closely but wisely said nothing. He refilled his own cup and poured more coffee into Victoire’s. “This is warm, and it is chilly today.”
“Yes,” said Victoire, already starting to set her plans. “It is.”
* * *
D’Estissac sat with Sackett-Hartley, the only two of their group of eight currently at Le Chat Gris. They sat close to the large fireplace, their stools at the edge of the flags of the hearth. Outside it was overcast and sullen; inside it was not much better.
“We will know who is in prison very soon, and what charges have been brought. We will find out if anyone is talking,” said d’Estissac as if repeating a lesson by rote. “Then we will be able to make new plans.”
“We can do nothing until the others return.” Sackett-Hartley sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Until we know what has transpired, there will be no point in anticipating developments, for—”
“We had better have some plans for leaving Paris in a hurry,” said d’Estissac with asperity. “It could easily come to that, you realize.”
“That is supposing that the police have learned about us,” said Sackett-Hartley with dogged optimism.
“And what makes you think they have not?” demanded d’Estissac.
“Only my faith in their honor,” said Sackett-Hartley heavily. He stared into the fire as if reading omens there. “We are all sworn to the same glorious duty, and I put my trust in our men, that they will not forget what they have sworn to do.”
“You are placing your faith in green lads who have never walked a battlefield, and others who are greedy for advancement,” d’Estissac reminded him. “I have welcomed their actions but I’ve never fooled myself that there was a bond that went beyond the rewards of killing Napoleon. And you cannot afford to believe anything else, Magnus.”
Sackett-Hartley said nothing for the greater part of a minute; his expression was that of a man dealing with necessary nastiness. “If they are talking, then we must find a way to leave, and leave quickly. The gendarmes will be after us.” Sackett-Hartley bit his lower lip.
“It would mean failing in our mission,” protested d’Estissac.
“Of course,” said Sackett-Hartley. He rubbed at his stubble-covered chin. “We will also have to contact our ally, and find out what he advises.”
“That’s not going to be easy,” said d’Estissac. “I’ve tried to reach him twice this morning and nothing. He does not respond to my inquiries. It may be that he is being watched, or ... There is a reception tonight given by the Corsican’s sister Pauline, and all the world goes. If our ally doesn’t attend, it’s as good as a confession; he will call attention to himself that might—”
Sackett-Hartley cut him short, then raised his hand to signal the landlord for cognac-and-cider. “Nothing so specific, my friend,” he cautioned.
“All right,” d’Estissac said, realizing that Sackett-Hartley was right. He rose and paced once around the taproom, then came back to the hearth. “There isn’t much time. The Coronation is only a few weeks away.”
“True,” said Sackett-Hartley, once again with a raised warning finger.
“What I cannot grasp is how the gendarmes came to know of the house at all. How did they decide to follow Querelle?” D’Estissac slapped his hand hard on his thigh. “They are not clever enough to have thought it out, not these damned peasant bureaucrats.”
“There must have been an informant,” Sackett-Hartley muttered.
“Exactly!” said d’Estissac. “You have the right of it.”
“But what informants?” asked Sackett-Hartley, “Not the landlord here or at La Plume et Bougie. Not the owner of the house we rented, not ... I cannot think who would be near enough to us to know what we planned and at the same time ready to betray us to the police.”
“What about our superior? Perhaps he decided the cause was lost and has taken this chance to sever all connections with us.” The implications of his own observations struck him with force. “It may be that he has found a way to trade all of us for his security.”
“I’ve considered that possibility,” said Sackett-Hartley in an undertone. “Whoever this man is, he undoubtedly is in great danger now, as we are. Without the reports from our remaining men, how are we to know whether it is safe to turn to the superior or not?”
“We may have to decide which risk is the greater,” said d’Estissac, “and act quickly, whatever we decide. There’s no telling when we might be described to Fouche’s men, and once they—”
“You wish to go underground, don’t you?” Sackett-Hartley shook his head slowly. “You bewilder me.”
“I? Why is that?” asked d’Estissac. “Because I know that it isn’t safe to remain here? Because I don’t trust the whole of our company as much as you wish to? You know what could happen to us if the police start searching. We have no choice but to go to ground until we have word from the superior. I will try to get a message to him again, but I don’t hold out much hope of it. I suspect that whoever he is, he has already learned what has come about and has made his own plans to protect himself. It’s what I would do in his situation.” He got to his feet and stretched as if his muscles were sore. “I don’t think Montrachet will speak against us—he’s too zealous for that. But a few of the others are not so reliable. And the Inspector-General’s wife w
as here; even if they have already captured everyone she knew of, this place is implicated. I am worried, I admit it.”
Sackett-Hartley could not find it in his heart to argue. “Very well. We will leave this place and choose another. We must be inconspicuous about it, and that could prove difficult if the police extend their search. It will take time to find the proper combination of—” He broke off, seeing a flicker in d’Estissac’s eyes. “Or have you one picked out?” He knew the answer as he asked the question.
“There’s a tavern—not a very good tavern, but a little better than this—near the old Avignon Gate. It’s called Le Chevre Chantier, very ancient as you can tell by the name. The landlord is a widow who answers to Isabeau. She’s not bad looking and they say she sleeps with a mad dog at her door.” He tried to smile at this. “She has two suites of rooms she is willing to let us have at a good price.”
“It sounds as if you have some connection with her,” said Sackett-Hartley.
D’Estissac nodded. “Her husband’s family served my family as coachmen for eight generations.” He shrugged. “She is loyal to us, as her husband would have been had he lived.”
“She could identify you,” warned Sackett-Hartley.
“She can also carry messages, and she will if we require it of her. Have no fear, she is not one to be swayed by fops and sycophants; she knows the old ways were best. She is no supporter of the Corsican—her husband was killed in Napoleon’s service and there has not been one sou of pension paid to her, though it was promised to her husband before his wound rotted.” He slapped one hand on his thigh. “Shall I tell the others?”
“It would be useful, yes; tell them to be ready to move before nightfall. I suppose we ought to be quit of this place, after all,” said Sackett-Hartley, musing as d’Estissac slipped away, “I wonder if my uncle ever had such things happen to him?”
* * *
MV02 Death Wears a Crown Page 22
