MV02 Death Wears a Crown

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Two of Pichegru’s men were lying on the floor in the hallway, unconscious, bruises already forming on their heads and hands. One of them had a broken leg, the bones piercing his skin and matting his inexpressibles with blood.

  Victoire took just enough time to determine that they were still alive, then followed after the retreating men, holding the sabre at the ready.

  More of the servants were breaking away as Pichegru’s men moved him beyond their reach. Several of them had been hurt in the fight, and now they began to realize the extent of their injuries.

  From the ballroom the refrain of the march began again.

  At last Pichegru was almost into a waiting carriage; Victoire saw this with dismay, and started to run forward.

  Then a foppish, limping man broke from the shadows, a sword upraised. He rushed directly at Pichegru, shouting something that was lost in the chaos around them. Pichegru’s men turned on Talleyrand as Pichegru himself fled in the carriage.

  Victoire saw one of Pichegru’s men take aim at Talleyrand, and she charged him, bringing her sabre down on his arm. The impact of the blow, followed by the tension in the blade as it bit into cloth and flesh sickened her a little, and she stepped back as the soldier tottered, clutching his arm to his chest.

  Most of Pichegru’s men were breaking away now, some running for the streets, some of them climbing aboard waiting coaches of the Bernadottes’ guests, and whipping up the horses to escape.

  Ahead on the paving stones Talleyrand sat with his head in his hands, his finery torn and smirched. He winced as Victoire approached him. “I couldn’t stop him. Thought I might, but—”

  Victoire could only nod. She no longer heard Paisiello’s march.

  VERNET WAS PALE and his visage grim as he returned home. He removed his greatcoat and called harshly for Odette. The day was bright and brittle, with a cold wind to make mockery of the sun, which precisely echoed his state of mind. “Odette!” he yelled again over the hammering from the floor above.

  Victoire appeared in the hallway, coming from the withdrawing room. “You’re back sooner than I expected,” she said calmly, noticing how rigidly Vernet was standing.

  “It’s done,” said Vernet heavily.

  “All of them?” asked Victoire. “Did none of them speak?”

  “Oh, they spoke. Montrachet delivered quite an oration, but none of it was useful to us, except that it confirmed their conspiracy. He was proud of it.” He went toward the living room. “There is still no sign of Pichegru.”

  “That should not surprise you,” said Victoire, turning toward the kitchens and calling to Odette to bring cognac before following Vernet into the parlor. “If he has any intelligence, he will be out of this country as soon as he can.”

  “There are men dispatched to the borders and the coast, searching for him.” He sat down on the new divan. “The conspirators are gone, dead or left the country. Or so Fouche declares. Most of them were very young, hardly more than boys, and they died bravely, but so uselessly.” He glanced toward the ceiling, where the sound of carpenters continued. “Would you ask them not to hammer for a while? The sound, after the executions—”

  “If you wish,” said Victoire, and went to relay his request to the workers. By the time she returned Odette had come from the kitchen with the cognac and two balloon glasses on the tray she carried. “Let me pour for us,” she offered, and motioned to Odette to leave them alone.

  “It’s a bad business, but it was managed as well as possible, under the circumstances. Dangerous men like that, we dare not risk a trial now.” He frowned. “Fouche is persuaded that spies like those must be dealt with summarily, as you would in war because they are committing an act of war. But still.” He looked over at Victoire and then away again. “We were not wholly unfeeling for their plight. They had Mass and Communion, those who wanted it.” He held out his hand for the glass she offered him. “It was very cold, and the wind cut like a sword. They were shot in groups of four; there were six of the groups, between the spies and Pichegru’s men who were captured. Most of them—Pichegru’s men—were injured. We rounded them up after the debacle at Bernadotte’s reception. They were shot first, because they disgraced the uniform of France.” He drank half the contents of the glass.

  “They revealed nothing,” said Victoire, certain they had not.

  “No, no, they told us nothing,” said Vernet, and drank again, less deeply than before. “The Coronation is slightly more than two weeks away, and—”

  “There is still the possibility of treason and assassination,” said Victoire bluntly. “Fouche has finally admitted that, has he?”

  “Not quite,” said Vernet. “But he has redoubled the force assigned to protect the First Consul.”

  “But you are afraid it may not be enough?” Victoire suggested.

  “I don’t know,” said Vernet, rising and beginning to pace. “I know you’ve said all along that there are still conspirators at large—”

  “And their undiscovered allies close to Napoleon as well,” Victoire interjected.

  “Yes, yes. Fouche hasn’t come to accept that theory of yours, not wholly. He believes that it is Pichegru who was their master, and that once he is apprehended the rest will be caught, assuming there are any of them left, whoever they are.” He stopped to stare, unseeing, out the window.

  “And you do not believe this,” said Victoire.

  “Not anymore, no,” he admitted slowly. “I want to believe it. I have tried to persuade myself. I’m afraid there are more of the spies or followers of Pichegru’s at large, and I am not convinced that they will not make another attempt on Napoleon’s life.” Now that he had actually said this, he smiled sheepishly. “You’ve thought this all along, haven’t you?”

  In spite of herself, Victoire nodded. “It has troubled me.”

  “I should have listened to you before.” He finished the cognac. “Those men, this morning, they were mad with purpose.”

  “Zealots,” said Victoire.

  “Zealots,” Vernet confirmed. “And they did not seem defeated. That’s what has weighed on me since ... since they were executed this morning. I’ve been thinking over the way they died, and it was the death of martyrs, not those with a lost cause. It has rankled with me, that ... that confidence they displayed.”

  “I see,” said Victoire, refilling his glass with cognac.

  “If Pichegru has fled, it’s only because there are others to do his work for him,” said Vernet with conviction. “You were right about that. I should have seen it from the first, but Fouche was so determined to ... Little as I wish to believe this, I know it for the truth.” He took another sip, this one quite modest. “I had better not finish this second glass. There is a meeting this afternoon I must attend, and it would not do for me to arrive less than alert.”

  “This is the preparation for the Coronation?” Victoire inquired. “For Fouche and the rest of you?”

  “Yes, and there is another tomorrow. From now until the event, there is something every day relating to it. I must have another fitting of my Coronation uniform tomorrow, though where I’ll find the time I haven’t decided.” He set the glass aside. “Have Odette use the rest in a sauce or something,” he recommended.

  “I will,” said Victoire. “My gown ought to be ready at the end of this week, or so the dressmaker tells me. She has a strict schedule to keep, and I am sure to have the gown by Friday.” She looked away, recalling once again how expensive these two articles of clothing were. “A pity we will have only the single occasion to wear them,” she said before she could stop herself. “Like wedding clothes, it seems.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Vernet in a practical tone. “But there may be other foreign events that will demand such finery again, and so—”

  “And so we will put them in clothes-presses and trust that we can use them again before they are hopeless
ly old-fashioned,” she said. “Such is the favor of advancement, my love. And the time may come when we will be pleased to have spent so much.”

  “Do you think so?” Vernet wondered aloud. “I am appalled at how much we must spend.”

  “As I am,” said Victoire. “However, it is necessary if the others are not to dismiss you.” She stepped to the hearth and stared down at the low fire burning there. “Fortunately there will not be another Coronation for a time. We will not have such expenditures next year.”

  “Let us pray so,” said Vernet, and then stood very still, watching her. “You aren’t planning to do any more investigating, are you?”

  “Not unless something new occurs to me,” she promised him, which did not provide the reassurance he sought.

  “Promise me you are not going to strike off on your own again. Tell me that you will speak to me before you do anything more to find these spies.” His eyes were somber and his expression grave. “If you are right, the men we seek are more desperate than you can imagine, my love, and they would not hesitate to murder you. Since we have not identified their associates, you could be courting destruction if you attempt to find them.” He came toward her. “If you’ll not protect yourself for yourself, do it for me.”

  “All right,” she said, realizing how deep his apprehension was. “I won’t do anything without informing you. Is that acceptable?”

  “Not entirely,” he said, “but if it’s the best concession you offer—”

  She shrugged. “It is the best I can do without falsehood.”

  He bent and kissed her lightly, “Then I accept it with gratitude.”

  * * *

  “How intrepid you were, Madam Vernet,” exclaimed Desirée as she and Victoire faced each other across the long dining table. Gone was the sensibility and good-will of their conversations of a week ago. Now there was combat in Desirée’s splendid eyes. “And how fortunate that your bravery brought you such flattering attention.” Around them the high-ranking officials and their wives sat, enjoying the lavish meal offered by Napoleon’s sister Pauline. “I would never have the courage to face a company of armed men.”

  “Hardly a company, Madame Bernadotte, and I was far from alone. Your servants had already moved to capture the traitor; I merely observed as closely as I could,” said Victoire with a gesture to indicate her lack of need for acclaim. “I find myself admiring your conduct during the trouble. It was a lucky thing that you are not easily distressed. You served to calm many of your guests, and with such presence of mind that your Swedish company were wholly protected at all times. Surely your husband and the delegation must be grateful for your presence of mind.”

  “You are kind to say so,” said Desirée, though her eyes held another message entirely.

  “Oh, no. I could never have been so clever as to order the musicians to play. That was a brilliant stroke,” said Victoire sincerely. “I suspect that we’re more in your debt than we know. A panic at that reception would surely have been catastrophic.”

  “It may have been what Pichegru sought,” said Desirée. “If there had been complete disorder, he might have been able to make an attempt on the First Consul.” Her eyes flashed.

  Victoire regarded her with interest. “Do you think it would have been possible? There were so many officers in attendance, surely one of them would have warned Napoleon before he arrived.”

  “It would please me to think so,” said Desirée with a wide, false smile. “You would have been at the door to warn him, in any case, wouldn’t you, Madame Vernet?”

  “Perhaps,” said Victoire, wondering what Desirée intended by that observation. “That would have depended more on your servants than on me.”

  “And Murat as well,” Desirée added with a deliberate sting in the words. “Doubtless you would seek to warn Joachim Murat, wouldn’t you?”

  The use of Murat’s first name startled Victoire and she knew that her response would be noted by guests other than Desirée. “I would hope that had it not fallen out so unfortunately that I might have been able to give the warning to everyone accompanying the First Consul,” she answered.

  “Noble sentiments,” said Desirée, and changed the subject to jewels.

  * * *

  The innkeeper at Le Chevre Chantier favored Colonel Sir Magnus Sackett-Hartley with a wide, encouraging smile. “Your ally has sent you word at last.”

  Sackett-Hartley put down the load of wood he had carried in from the shed behind the inn, and he regarded her with suspicion. The small lobby was deserted, and the door to the taproom was closed, leaving them isolated. “What are you talking about?”

  “Very fussy handwriting has your ally, dainty as a woman’s,” she said, holding out the folded missive with a provocative air. “D’Estissac said there would be a message, and here it is.” She ran the tip of her tongue over her parted lips. “If you want to read it, you’ll have to thank me for it properly.”

  “Properly?” he repeated, not certain of her intention, for he had seen her taunt men and then upbraid them for their forwardness. “I’ll bow and kiss your hand, if you require it. You have had generous payment already.”

  “That is not what I meant,” she said, and her smile changed, becoming more eager and inviting. “There are many ways to be thanked, aren’t there? A man like you, well-set-up and handsome, you must know these ways. I am a widow, and there are times my bed is too empty and cold.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “It would be a welcome gesture to have a little of your time, my fine English gentleman.”

  Sackett-Hartley stared at her, wondering if he had suddenly forgotten all his French. “You cannot ... surely you do not intend ...” He stopped, too flustered to continue. What if he had misunderstood her? he asked himself, and this was another one of her flirtatious ploys?

  “I mean that I expect you to give me a great deal of pleasure before I give you this message,” she said plainly. “And if you do it well enough and I am satisfied, then I’ll continue to serve your purpose here, as long as you serve mine.” Her eyes were bright, anticipatory. “If you disappoint me, I’ll no doubt have to find a way to ... to achieve other satisfaction and pleasure. There are rewards for those who bring the enemies of the First Consul to light. A poor widow like me, who could blame me for fearing for my life in the company of desperate men?”

  Sackett-Hartley regarded her steadily for a short while, then said, “And what is to keep you from informing against us whether you are pleasured or not?”

  Her laughter was short and sarcastic. “You are taking quite a gamble, my pretty Englishman.”

  “And coming to your bed is not a gamble?” he asked, his expression self-effacing. “Madame, consider: neither you nor I have time for courtship. You have danger enough having us here. Why bring more—”

  “That is my thought,” she interrupted him. “As long as I’ve taken so great a chance, I wish to be richly rewarded.”

  “But Madame—” Sackett-Hartley protested.

  “Do you not think me fair?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he admitted at once. “That’s never the issue. You are a beautiful woman.” He looked directly at her. “It’s not a question of your beauty, Madame.”

  “I’m Isabeau, not Madame,” she said gently, and indicated the small room that served for her office. “Come in. We can be private here.”

  “Madame, it isn’t wise,” he cautioned her as he followed her into the little room. “You may discover that I’m not to your liking, and what then?”

  “Then you will learn what I like,” she said, closing the door behind them. “And I’ll give you the letter for trying, in any case.”

  He stared at her, knowing this was folly but letting himself be persuaded by her magnificent figure and beautiful skin. Her face was lovely, he thought, and he had speculated more than once what her tastes and talents might be, and imagin
ed what she would offer him, and how he would take that gift. For an instant, he remembered his uncle, and knew that the dashing old man would not approve. But Uncle Percival was in England and Isabeau was three strides away, and Uncle Percival had adored his wife. “Give me the letter first,” he said.

  She leaned back against the door. “We will be alone for a short while,” she said. “We could make a beginning. And then the letter will be yours.”

  With a slight shrug, Sackett-Hartley went up to her and with slow deliberation kissed her, pulling her into his arms as she warmed to him.

  * * *

  Fouche shook his head and fussily adjusted the stack of files on his desk. “Madame Vernet, your concern for the safety of the First Consul does you great credit. Doubtless you have demonstrated steadfast purpose better than many of the very highest. But you must see that the measures you advocate are no longer necessary. We have ended the activities of the English and the French traitors, in large part due to your tenacity. There are no dangerous men abroad, not any longer. They’ve been captured and shot, all, that is, but Pichegru and possibly one or two of his supporters. But we have taken measures to be sure he cannot approach the First Consul.”

  “The Emperor,” corrected Victoire. She had arrived at Fouche’s office less than ten minutes before and had been given very little of his time; there was a Coronation rehearsal in an hour and Fouche, along with a hundred others, was required to attend.

  “In eight more days, yes,” said Fouche. “And we are aware that this could well be a crucial factor in regard to his safety, but I assure you there’s no reason for this constant distress you feel.”

  “I’m not distressed,” said Victoire emphatically. “I’m frustrated because no one is willing to take the time to finish this investigation. My husband spends most of his time escorting foreign dignitaries about the city and has neither the time nor the men to pursue the inquiry he began. I cannot locate the officials who can authorize more diligence in discovering the others in this treasonous plot, for they are all being fitted for uniforms or attending banquets or military reviews. Berthier hasn’t been at his desk for more than three days.” She knew that Fouche would be offended that she had approached Berthier, but hoped that perhaps such a remark would goad him into providing her with the assistance she needed. And, she added to herself, it was impossible to have two words with Murat, who as Governor of Paris was more caught up in the Coronation preparations than any of the rest of them.