“May Allah guide us,” said Roustam-Raza defiantly, as if he expected Notre Dame itself to contradict him. Then he turned and hurriedly retraced his steps.
Victoire watched him only for a moment, then hurried on along the gallery, taking as little time as she dared to peer into alcoves and niches and closet-sized chapels, trusting to surprise for protection. She felt apprehension building in her.
The Coronation continued below. Several representatives of foreign nations were making short speeches, presenting gifts, many to both Napoleon and Josephine. Others were giving speeches praising Napoleon as a great leader and inspiration; most of these came from Frenchmen or the weak German states that lined France’s eastern border.
The gifts were followed by a prolonged sermon on the responsibilities of leadership. This was given by the Cardinal, for the Pope’s French was not good enough for the task. The Cardinal’s voice was high and nasal, and it echoed eerily through the huge cathedral.
Victoire reached the end of the gallery and looked for stairs to the next level, and found them tucked away behind a thirteenth-century screen. Taking care to be certain that no one was watching for her from ambush, she rushed upward, doing her best to shut out the enormous sounds that rushed and rang through the cathedral. In the next gallery up, it was more difficult to make out what was happening below. She realized that she was almost directly over the center of the cathedral, and she allowed herself a few seconds to look down on the gold, white, and red gathering before the High Altar. To her surprise, Napoleon met her gaze and a brief look of concern crossed his face.
At this level there were a number of small balconies projecting out over the nave and transept. The leaf-shaped carving supporting them provided some protection to anyone willing to crouch down. Victoire found herself standing in front of a chapel that was little more than a double-width alcove; a tiny altar faced a small, dusty triptych of the Annunciation flanked by Saint Barbara and Saint Veronica; the three woven metal plates of the triptych leaned against the marble of the cathedral wall and appeared ready to fall. Using the chapel for some concealment, Victoire peered around at the profusion of balconies and projections that were in the greatest number directly above the High Altar. She looked down only once, and had to take hold of the nearest pillar to stop the vertigo that seized her.
It was then that she noticed a shine that did not seem to be part of the stone. It came from the front of one of the little balconies a short distance away. She narrowed her eyes, concentrating and wishing now she had not sent Roustam-Raza away. She dared not take the time to look for additional help. Napoleon was easily visible from that balcony. If she tried to raise the alarm it would do little more than warn the assassin that he was observed. She again saw the metallic sheen of a rifle-barrel. As Victoire watched in horror, Pichegru, in parade-dress uniform with full honors fixed on his sash, rose from his crouch and brought his breechloader up. He was taking aim as the Coronation approached its most compelling moment: the placing of the crown on Napoleon Bonaparte’s head. Already the Pope was reaching for the crown.
With horror Victoire realized that this would be exactly when an assassin would strike, robbing Napoleon of his triumph and his life at the same time.
The excitement in the cathedral was increasing, its intensity as palpable as the cold breeze that raced through its lofty galleries. The assembly of distinguished persons was alive with motion and whispers as everyone waited for the historic moment with intense anticipation.
Somewhere down below, thought Victoire, Desirée was waiting with the rest, but what she anticipated was not Napoleon’s epitome of glory but his violent death. A sense of helplessness coursed through Victoire, and was banished as quickly as it came. This was no time to despair, she ordered herself, and determined to act. She was prepared to rush the man and fight him if she had to. If Pichegru shot at her, he would have to reload before he could fire at Napoleon, and that would serve to provide warning. She had already faced the man once. Would she be as lucky again? If she attacked him, either or both of them might fall from the balcony to land in front of the High Altar far below. There had to be a better way, one that would lessen the chance of any more bloodshed.
The triptych caught her eye again, and now she reached out for it, taking it down and folding it into a form about the size of a jewelry-box. She hefted it once, and gave a small, experimental swing to her arm. She could throw it as far as she needed to, and with some accuracy. It was heavy enough to inflict damage, she decided. Certainly it was enough to leave bruises and perhaps cause him to misfire. She took it, holding it in the curve of her arm as she crept nearer, all the while praying that Pichegru would not fire for a few seconds more, until she was in a position to use her make-shift weapon.
She rounded the end of the chapel, moving as close to the balcony as she dared. Then she braced herself and hurled the triptych at Pichegru, aiming for his shoulder to deflect his weapon.
The triptych struck him at the base of the back of his skull.
Pichegru shuddered, straightened, then collapsed back against the pillar, his rifle falling against the stone with a clatter that only Victoire could hear.
THE POPE stood with the crown poised over Napoleon’s head. At that instant the same instinct that gave him an edge on the battlefield caused the Emperor-to-be to look up. He found himself facing Pichegru and the breechloader. All the glory and gaudy finery vanished and the world came down to that ominous barrel and Pichegru’s enmity.
Then the Pope shifted slightly and caught Napoleon’s attention; the Pontiff was standing just in front of his throne and was about to lean over to place the crown on his head.
Napoleon stood, jamming the crown on his head and shocking the Pope. It also placed the Pope directly between the self-crowned Emperor of France and Pichegru’s ball.
Risking a look over the Pope’s shoulder Napoleon saw the folded leaves of the triptych slam into the back of Pichegru’s head. As the man fell, Napoleon could hear the faint clatter of the breechloader over the music and murmurs of the crowd. As Napoleon watched, Madame Vernet appeared in the balcony. Smiling with relief, he turned his attention back to his Coronation.
Victoire stared in astonishment at the still figure of Pichegru, unable to believe that she had succeeded in knocking him out. Of course she had intended to stop him, but now she was shocked by what she had done. She might feel jubilant later, but now she could see blood matting his hair, and she feared he was severely injured even as she felt blossoming pride in her accomplishment. After a slight hesitation she moved forward to take the rifle and determine how badly the general was injured.
Pichegru was in a heap, his breathing shallow and his face pale and mottled as curdled milk. He made no response when Victoire bent over him, her hands trembling a little as she felt at his nose for breath and then pulled his rifle away from where he had fallen.
The excitement below was growing; the choir sang in soaring phrases and the Pope continued his benediction on the newly crowned Emperor.
What would she do, Victoire wondered, if Pichegru regained consciousness before help arrived? She could not leave him unattended, but she was shrewd enough to know that the general might still be capable of further damage. He had to be immobilized, and she lacked the means to assure that. She looked down at him, her thoughts racing, as she sought for the means to keep him from any action. At last she reached out and pulled at the wide military sash Pichegru wore, a profusion of his medals fixed to the wide band of silk. Victoire tugged at it, and at last pulled it off his shoulder and worked it from under his arm, then struggled to roll the fallen general prone so that she could secure his hands behind his back. She set about tying his hands with the wide military sash, relishing the irony of Pichegru’s capture.
Below the Pope was placing the crown of Empress on Josephine’s head. The choir took up another anthem, this one recently composed in honor of the ceremony.
Josephine beamed, her irregular teeth the only imperfect note in the perfection of her dress and coiffure. Napoleon also smiled with delight. As the Pope moved back, he gently reached over and squeezed Josephine’s hand. The affection and joy the two shared was visible to everyone assembled. A few of the less discreet officers in the back of the cathedral actually cheered.
Satisfied that Pichegru could not easily free his hands, she gave her attention to his feet. With an effort she removed his boots, flinging them back into the chapel where the triptych had been, then worked to remove his gartered hose, knotting them together before she secured them around his ankles.
This done, she got to her feet, ignoring the dust and grime that had ruined her gown. She brushed her hands together, looking around for the help she needed. Then, with a sigh, she started away from Pichegru, setting the musket out of sight behind the altar and then going back along the gallery toward the stairs to the next level down.
She had almost reached the place when a sexton appeared, all but running, cutting her off. She was about to order him out of her way when she saw he carried a Wilson pocket pistol, and it was pointed directly at her.
“I regret the necessity,” said Colonel Sir Magnus Sackett-Hartley in flawless French, “but I cannot permit you to reach the floor before I do. Please stand aside, Madame.”
“And if I refuse?” Victoire asked, wondering if the man was more frightened than he was daring.
“Then I regret I will be forced to stop you, Madame.” His answer was cool and without a trace of fear.
Victoire stared at him, memorizing his clean-cut features and his fine manner. “How many of you are there?”
“Not enough,” said Sackett-Hartley, “My shot went wild—”
“Your shot?” Victoire repeated, aghast at this revelation. “You fired?”
“When Pichegru failed to, yes,” he said. “The choir covered the sound.” He motioned her back with a flip of his pistol. “And I had just the one for the Ferguson.”
At another time she might have admonished him for his lack of foresight; now she could only be grateful that the English assassin—for surely this must be the English assassin she had been seeking—had been so sure of himself that he had not brought more than a single charge for his rifle. “And the pistol?”
“I have two of them, both charged. I don’t want to shoot you, Madame. It would require a ball I cannot easily spare, not and keep one for myself.” He studied her a moment, intense concentration in his manner, and then his expression shifted, became strangely cordial. “You are the one Montrachet caught, aren’t you? He spoke of a fair woman, not yet thirty, with bright blue eyes. He said you had a most unwomanly lack of fear.” His eyes smiled appreciatively. “Surely there cannot be two of you. You are Madame Vernet.”
“I am,” she said, unwilling to deny it, even to an enemy.
“At another time I would be enchanted, Madame,” he said with a slight bow. “As it is, I am saddened that we meet under these unhappy circumstances.”
“But as it is you’re going to shoot me?” she said, not quite able to keep the quiver out of her voice.
“Hardly that, Madame Vernet; not if I do not have to.” Sackett-Hartley actually smiled at her, his expression becoming more affable. “But I fear I will have to ask you to embrace that pillar, the one supporting the buttress.” He indicated the barrel-girthed pillar with a motion of the muzzle of his pistol.
An orchestra in the back of the choir loft had started playing now. It was a loud and sprightly march composed by a German for the occasion. In the front of the cathedral the mayors of the largest cities were now presenting jewel-encrusted keys to Napoleon. The religious ceremony over, many of the guests felt free to begin talking about what they had just seen and the murmur of the crowd competed with the brassy sound of the orchestra. Victoire knew that if she screamed now, there was a good chance no one would hear her.
Sackett-Hartley had a leather belt under his sexton’s sash. The task of removing it was awkward, for he kept his pistol trained on Victoire as he wrestled the belt off. “If you will be good enough to put your arms around that pillar, Madame Vernet, as far as you can?” His face was flushed now and he was becoming visibly apprehensive as he listened to the Coronation. “Just lean against it? If you will?”
“And then what?” asked Victoire, taking as much time as she dared to do as he ordered.
“Then I will leave. Do be quick. I don’t want your soldiers to find me here. It is enough that they will get Pichegru.” As he said this he secured her wrist in a loop of the belt, then wrapped her other wrist in a tight knot and tugged at it twice to be certain it would hold. “Yet I meant what I said: I am pleased we had the opportunity to meet, Madame Vernet, although I apologize for the circumstances. Perhaps another time you will have the advantage of me. If that time ever comes, believe me when I say I am always your most sincere admirer.” With that he gave her a quick bow, then fled down the gallery to the connection with another corridor high over the transept.
Victoire watched him, wanting to cry out even though no one would hear her in the glorious paeans rising from the musicians and singers above both sides of the altar. Almost at once her hands became numb from the belt binding her wrists. Her patience was exhausted, she was infuriated, and now that she could do nothing, her fear gained strength and she felt herself lean against the stone for support. She attempted to console herself with the reminder that Pichegru was waiting, captive, secure in his bonds, but for Victoire this was a hollow victory.
The mayors were finished and the Bonaparte family was now being honored with the opportunity to congratulate their brother. Already the clerics gathered themselves to lead the procession to the main entranceway, where a crowd of soldiers and citizens waited to be the first to cheer their new Emperor.
There was a shout not far away, and then Roustam-Raza appeared, a half dozen Guards coming up behind him.
Victoire closed her eyes for several seconds, her sense of humiliation increasing at the thought that the stalwart Mameluke would see her in this predicament. When she opened them again, a private and Roustam-Raza were only a few steps from her.
“Allah preserve and—” began Roustam-Raza as he reached Victoire’s side. “What has happened?”
“Pichegru,” said Victoire as she felt the leather around her wrists ease and the blood flow back into her hands with painful intensity.
“He did this? He is—” Roustam-Raza demanded, only to have Victoire interrupt him.
“No, he did not do this. An Englishman did. Pichegru is ... well, he may have regained consciousness, but I left him in the northeast balcony over the High Altar, secured.” She rubbed her hands together, trying to restore feeling to them without increasing the hurt.
“See to it,” ordered Roustam-Raza, and gave the Guards room to move past him.
“He did make an attempt to shoot Napoleon—Pichegru did,” said Victoire. “And so did the Englishman, or so he claimed. But fortunately neither of them succeeded.”
“The Englishman escaped?” said Roustam-Raza dubiously.
“Unless you detained a sexton with reddish hair and a pair of English pistols, he must have,” said Victoire, her thoughts turning giddy now that she was safe.
Already the lesser dignitaries were taking the opportunity to sneak out the cathedral’s many side doors. Most were hurrying to the front of the church in hopes of being noticed by Napoleon. Others raced away to final fittings for the uniforms and gowns they would be wearing at the palace that night.
The procession was led by the clerics, followed closely by Napoleon with Josephine on his arm. The rest left in reverse order of their entrance as officers of the Guard cavalry moved along the center aisle, controlling the flow of the crowd. There was a tremendous obligatory cheer when the crowd caught sight of Napoleon as he emerged from the cathedral.
“We disco
vered no sexton, with or without pistols,” said Roustam-Raza heavily. “He will have escaped easily by now.”
The Guards were returning now, two of them half-escorting, half-dragging Pichegru between them. The general was not yet restored to his wits, but was no longer insensible.
“What do we do with him?” the nearest Guard asked Roustam-Raza.
“Put him in a cell and guard him,” said Roustam-Raza in a tone of voice that made the Guards shiver. “He is a traitor to the Emperor and France.”
“He is also a great fool,” said one of the soldiers, prodding Pichegru with the butt of his rifle.
Victoire intervened. “Whatever he is, he deserves better treatment at your hands, or it will be said that he acted in just cause.” She saw the soldier stare at her in offended incredulity. “You are victorious. You can therefore afford to be generous,” she reminded him.
Roustam-Raza gave an emphatic nod of approval. “You have said it right, Madame Vernet.” He addressed the rest of the soldiers, “Mind that you conduct yourselves with utmost propriety. Let it be your honor that protects him.” He let the prisoner and the soldiers escorting him get by, and then addressed Victoire again. “How is it that you were spared, Madame Vernet?” This was not an accusation but a statement of astonishment.
“Gallantry, I suppose,” said Victoire, with a faint smile. “He is one of those English who love the grand gesture, and this was his.” She looked down at the wreckage of her gown. “I can’t return to Vernet looking like this, not while he’s escorting the Spanish.”
“It would not be correct,” Roustam-Raza agreed.
Victoire sighed. “I’ll have to think of something I can do to ... make myself presentable.”
“Where is your cloak? It will cover you well enough,” said Roustam-Raza.
MV02 Death Wears a Crown Page 30
