“It is in the carriage that brought me,” said Victoire, frowning. “Yes, you’re right, it would be enough, but look at that crowd. It would take you the better part of an hour to find the carriage and who knows how long to return here?” She was able to laugh once, but her mirth vanished again. “It was a lucky thing for the Englishman that he left the cathedral before the ceremony was completely finished.”
“I have no doubt it was part of his plan,” agreed Roustam-Raza with a deliberate gesture of condemnation.
“Almost certainly,” said Victoire, starting in the direction of the narrow staircase. “He’s a clever man, I think.”
“And a very lucky one,” added Roustam-Raza.
“Luck and planning often march together,” observed Victoire, repeating an aphorism she had heard Berthier recite during the return voyage from Egypt. She found her hands were unsteady and she had begun to shiver.
Roustam-Raza glanced toward one of the privates and ordered him to stop. “Give your coat to Madame Vernet, soldier, at once,” he ordered. “I will see that you are given a new one for this service.”
The private stared at the Egyptian but then shrugged, showing his resignation and shifting the long garment from his shoulders with the same movement. He held it out to Victoire. “It is for your service to the Emperor, Madame,” he said with a strong Alsatian accent, turning very red.
“I see,” said Victoire as she took the coat, her hands feeling stiff as she attempted to close them on the dark wool. “Thank you, soldier.”
“Private Grunne,” he said with a half-salute as Victoire pulled his coat around her shoulders.
They had reached the stairs and now conversation was impossible for the tremendous welter of sound that roared like the ocean during a storm.
As she followed Roustam-Raza down the ladder-like stairs—the Mameluke making his way half-sideways because of the narrowness of the treads—she felt a deep, aching fatigue wash over her, as if she had finally put down a pack of such weight that she trembled at the thought of lifting it again.
“Is something the matter?” Roustam-Raza bellowed at her in order to be heard at all.
“No,” she answered, shaking her head slowly. “Nothing. In fact, it may be that at last things are all right.”
* * *
“The word is that Pichegru is dead,” Odette said the next day as Victoire lounged in her old-fashioned copper bath. “I’ve not seen an official notice, but the news is everywhere.”
“Did you hear this at the market?” asked Victoire as she felt beneath her for the soap. In spite of her late rising she was slightly bilious from the huge banquet the night before.
“Early this morning,” Odette confirmed. “It was believed by everyone. Pichegru has paid for his treason.”
“I hope for his sake that he is dead,” Victoire said a bit remotely, and looked down at her body through the disappearing bubbles. “These banquets are going to make me stout, I am certain of it. Look at my waist, and my breasts are turning to melons.” She sighed. “At least that’s fashionable.”
Odette chuckled. “Madame Vernet, surely you are joking,” she said.
“About my waist? Never!” Victoire sat up suddenly and sent water sloshing onto the stone floor of the kitchen.
“Then you had better resign yourself to it,” said Odette, and cocked her head as she regarded Victoire in disbelief. “You are increasing, Madame. You must have settled while you and the Inspector-General were traveling. I thought you knew.”
“Increasing?” Victoire repeated as if she had never heard the word, for she dared not hope it was true. “Ridiculous.”
Odette sat down on one of the stools. “I do the laundry here, Madame Vernet, and I know when your last courses were even if you do not. You have used no napkins since you returned from Dunkerque. Have you been too busy to notice?” This time she laughed outright.
“Since my return from Dunke—” She broke off as she figured the time in her mind. Slowly color suffused her face. “I thought—” Again she fell silent, afraid to tell Odette that she was afraid she had injured herself in all her activity and was finally barren.
“I assume the child will come in mid-summer, if God is good to you.” Odette indicated the ceiling, echoing from the labor of the carpenters on the floor above. “The house is being repaired just in time.”
Victoire leaned back in the water, amazed at what Odette said and wishing fervently it was true. Her last courses had been ... when? Three months ago? Was Odette right? There had been disappointments before, and she did not relish having another, not for herself and not for Vernet. She ran one hand lightly over her belly. Perhaps, she thought, and unbidden the prediction of Madame LeNormande came to her mind. What was it she said? There would be three children, although not all of them would survive childhood? And there were two grandchildren at least? Had she remembered this correctly?
“What is it, Madame?” asked Odette, noticing Victoire’s deep frown. She had gone to the door to admit the kitchen cat and was bending at the waist, absentmindedly stroking the purring feline.
“Um?” Victoire looked up, coming back to herself and rigorously dismissing what the fortune-teller said as superstition at worst and sophistry at best. “Oh, nothing. I suppose every woman must wonder about an unborn child, and hope that it will thrive.”
“Most women, certainly,” said Odette. “In a poor family, it might be otherwise,” she added carefully.
“And if the woman has no husband, or her husband is cruel,” said Victoire. “Yes, there are those who must not welcome children.” She recalled a distant cousin of hers who had the misfortune to become pregnant before she was married. The cousin had been sent to a convent in the south as a postulant, and Victoire had never learned anything of the little boy she delivered. She pulled herself to her feet and held her hands out for the warm towel Odette had waiting for her. “Nothing to Vernet yet, Odette. He has had his hopes raised before, and to no purpose.”
“Of course, Madame,” said Odette as she watched Victoire wrap herself in the towel. “I’ll make you broth with good juniper berries in it, and that will strengthen you,” she went on. “And I’ll stuff a pillow with mugwort, to prevent illness in the night. And then I’ll light a candle to the Virgin for you, and to Saint Anne, to protect you.” This last was a bit defensive, for she knew that Victoire was not religious.
“That’s very kind,” said Victoire, trying to determine if she could feel any difference in her body other than a slight heaviness in the abdomen. “I fear it could still be nothing more than too many stuffed loins of veal and collops of pork in pâté and brandy,” she admitted.
“You will not think so in another month,” Odette warned her. “And in the meantime, you must be careful not to become chilled or to take sick.”
Victoire sighed. “Whatever the case, it is probably just as well that I have nowhere to go tonight, but to bed. Vernet is bidden to dine with Fouche and Berthier; no doubt they will discuss Pichegru and the English assassin.”
“Has he been caught yet?” asked Odette. “The Englishman?”
“Not that I know of,” answered Victoire, thinking that she could almost feel sorry for Sackett-Hartley if he fell into Napoleon’s hands now. “Perhaps I can learn something from Vernet tonight, when he comes home.”
“I’m still astonished by his audacity—tying you to a pillar!” Odette’s indignation raised her voice by a third.
“Considering he could have shot me, I must confess I feel a little gratitude toward him,” Victoire responded calmly.
“There’s proof you are increasing! At such times women always take odd notions into their heads.” With that announcement, Odette went to get Victoire’s simple housedress, and by the time she returned to the kitchen, Victoire was eager to discuss the ball Murat and his wife Caroline were giving the following evening.
* * *
The Emperor’s sister Caroline had outdone herself: the hotel where she and her husband Marshall Joachim Murat lived was ablaze with lights, and decorations in the shape of laurel wreaths intertwining golden coronets were everywhere, from the mirrored entry hall to the ballroom to the cavernous chamber where a lavish buffet had been set out for the favored three hundred who were invited to continue the celebration of the Coronation of Napoleon as Emperor of France.
As each person entered they were announced at the head of the stairs leading down into the ballroom. Then they proceeded down a line of important guests to their hosts. While the recognition was often pleasant, this tradition invariably meant that a long line formed waiting to be announced. With only Odette to assist her, Victoire had taken longer than planned to prepare herself. This meant that she and Vernet were trapped far back in the announcement line.
The advantage of this was that from the balcony leading to the stairs Victoire had the opportunity to study the glittering assembly before joining it.
A perversity in her caused Victoire to spot Talleyrand first. Around him gathered a dozen other well-dressed men, all engaged in deep conversation. Talleyrand himself wore a silk coat of bright-blue with lace cuffs. She studied the outfit, aware of what a dandy the Foreign Minister was when given the chance.
Bernadotte and Desirée swept through the center of the room, trailing a number of lesser celebrities in their wake. Eventually they reached the head of the Swedish delegation, who was himself in animated conversation with the British minister.
A small orchestra was playing light music, but had not struck up anything suitable for dancing. This would begin when most of the guests had arrived.
Finally the couple ahead of them was announced, the duke and duchess of Klive and Berg. Victoire brushed down the new ballgown and prepared to smile.
When the chamberlain announced Inspector-General and Madame Vernet, Murat stopped in mid-sentence and hurried to the base of the stairs to bring the couple ahead of the rest of the reception line. There was a moment of speculation, considering the Marshall’s reputation, but it stopped when he was greeted so affably by both Vernet and Victoire, and Victoire was given three touches of Caroline’s cheek.
Murat accepted Victoire’s curtsy with a smile. “I’ll want a word or two with you later on, when the reception line ends, after my brother-in-law arrives.” He glanced at his wife. “She has something to say to you, too.”
Caroline Bonaparte curtsied to Victoire more deeply than social convention required, and met Victoire’s shocked expression with a direct stare. “I’ve been told what you did, during the Coronation. All France is in your debt for saving the Emperor, but I am grateful to you for preserving my brother.” She hesitated. “I understand why my husband admires you, Madame.”
“You’re most gracious,” said Victoire, dazed, and accepted Vernet’s arm to be led toward the ballroom. Her gown, of silk procured from the mercer near Saint-Sulpice, was a gray so pale it was silver, with silver point-lace along the corsage and the open front panel of the robe, which revealed a slip of sea-green brocade scavenged from yet another of her mother’s grand toilettes. Her earrings were cascades of black pearls, and she wore no necklace. She whispered to Vernet as they walked into the buffet room, “I don’t know what to say to her. She spoke as if I performed a personal service for her, at her instruction.”
“Considering the woman’s temperament,” said Vernet, his eyes narrowing slightly, “she probably assumes that is what you did.”
Victoire made an impatient gesture and noticed that there was a slight stain on the fingertip of one of her new long white kid gloves. Given what they cost, she thought, the least they could do was stay clean for more than an hour. “I hope that the whole family is not going to behave like Caroline,” she told her husband. “It would be oppressive to have to deal with so much gratitude.”
“From that family, very true,” said Vernet, and nodded to Berthier, who came bustling up to them, dusting snuff from his neck cloth with his handkerchief after he wiped the corner of his mouth.
“I’m glad I have the chance to speak with you before the Emperor arrives,” he said to Vernet, and glanced at Victoire, favoring her with the suggestion of a bow. “And you as well, Madame Vernet.”
Victoire murmured a few polite phrases and listened with intense interest. “I saw the report on Pichegru,” said Vernet, “and I am not able to say I am completely in agreement with you.”
Berthier looked a bit surprised. “You’re not? Why is that?”
“I have not been able to persuade myself that Pichegru was ultimately responsible for the plot. Even possible help from Madame Bernadotte does not account for how close he came to achieving his ends.” Vernet touched Victoire’s hand. “I discussed this with my wife last night, and she generally agrees with me.”
Berthier opened his eyes very wide, and instead of looking guileless he took on the appearance of an oversized dolt. “I hope you have not been so indiscreet as to share your speculations with others.”
“No; I am aware that it wouldn’t be prudent. Still, it troubles me, Berthier, that he allied himself with the English. It is most unlike Pichegru to do that. I recall his low regard for the English and I am shocked to discover he entered into dealings with them,” Vernet said.
“And what do you think, Madame Vernet?” asked Berthier with a one-sided smile. “Do you share your husband’s opinions?”
“I am concerned, yes, because Pichegru was ill-disposed to the English,” she said. “He was outspoken in his distrust of them.”
“A smoke screen,” declared Berthier. “A clever ruse, so that we would look elsewhere for our traitors and assassins.”
“Then it was clumsy, for it didn’t work,” said Victoire before Vernet could make a more moderate statement. “He was suspected almost at once.”
“Because of your perspicacity,” said Berthier. “If you’d not been so observant and determined, Pichegru might well have achieved his ends.”
Victoire wanted to remind Berthier that luck had little to do with it, but Vernet spoke before she could. “It’s well you realize that, Berthier. My wife braved dangers that were not hers to face because you and Fouche were not willing to believe her.”
“I realize that,” said Berthier with a trace of embarrassment. “It’s unfortunate that we permitted our vision to be clouded, but—” He waved his handkerchief in the air, flipping it in the general direction of Bernadotte and Desirée.
“Meaning she was to be protected?” Victoire guessed aloud. “Was that what held you back?”
“Yes,” admitted Berthier. “The Emperor ordered that she was not to be made accountable for anything. What could I do but obey? It was his way of showing contrition, I suppose, but it hampered our investigation.”
“When did he issue such an order?” asked Vernet, fascinated and vexed at once.
“During the summer, before you were sent north to the coast,” Berthier admitted. “Fouche was not given any information, but he was fed early dispatches that made him discount much of what you reported. Fouche saw the information, but Napoleon made certain he evaluated it with a particular slant that served his purpose.” He sighed. “I should have warned Fouche to send another officer, Vernet. He doesn’t appreciate your wife as I do.”
Victoire shook her head in exasperation, and the black pearls swung and bounced against her neck. “You may tell the Emperor he might have been killed for his show of courtesy to Desirée.”
“It wouldn’t be permitted,” said Berthier firmly.
“And how was it supposed to stop?” Victoire asked. “What if Pichegru had allies other than Desirée and the English?”
“What do you mean?” Berthier rounded on her. “What are you saying?”
“Only that there are others who might seek the Emperor’s fall for their own advantage.
Desirée is not the only ambitious person who might hold a grudge against Napoleon.” Victoire looked around the gathering and at last picked out the popinjay figure of Talleyrand. “For example. And he favors uniting with the English.”
Berthier nodded, his face somber. “There is nothing to indicate he participated in any way.”
“We have made inquiries, but there have been no discoveries,” Vernet confirmed.
“This does not surprise me,” said Victoire dryly. “But I cannot dismiss my assumptions, just for that.”
“But keep them to yourself,” warned Berthier. “And the things you know about Desirée.”
Victoire regarded Berthier critically. “I hope you will inform the Emperor that I think he is placing himself at risk, permitting this to remain unresolved.”
“You might tell him yourself, if you wish, as he intends to speak with you when he arrives,” said Berthier with satisfaction. “Doubtless your husband will relinquish one dance to the Emperor?”
Vernet nodded at once. “If it is his request, then certainly I will offer no objection,” he said formally, concealing the rush of pride he felt, knowing that such attention to Victoire at this event would add much to their social standing and increase his own status as well. “An honor for you, my love,” he added to Victoire.
“Only if the Emperor has improved his dancing skills,” said Victoire before she could stop herself, recalling the last time she had attempted the polonaise with Napoleon.
“Madame,” Berthier admonished her.
“My dear,” Vernet said.
Victoire smiled, looking from her husband to Berthier and back again. “Oh, I am fully cognizant of the compliment he offers. But my toes will pay the price.”
“Madame Vernet,” protested Berthier.
But Vernet was grinning. “Isn’t she refreshing? Most women would simper and pout—not my wife. I’m a very fortunate fellow, Berthier. Doubly so, because I have the sense to know it.”
MV02 Death Wears a Crown Page 31
