MV02 Death Wears a Crown (19 page)

Although the stable boy had not told Victoire his name, she recognized his voice and came out of the stall at once, just as Roustam-Raza stepped through the tall doors.

“Blessings upon you, my old friend. May you live all your life the honored servant of Allah, and may you have your rewards here on earth as well as in Paradise,” she said with a curtsy in her awkward Egyptian dialect.

Roustam-Raza sala’amed to Victoire at once—far better than Jean-Adam had managed it—and wished her long life and many sons in his native language, continuing in French, “What has become of you, Madame Vernet?”

“A great deal,” she said. “And I hope you have brought me some food, for I think I could faint with hunger.” She laughed a little, which served to alarm Roustam-Raza.

He turned to Jean-Adam. “Here is money. Bring us food at once. Hot food,” he added as he gave the stable boy three gold coins. “Have some for yourself.”

Jean-Adam took the money, his eyes bright. “At once. There is a bakery in the next street, and a maker of sausage.” With that he scampered off, eager to be about his errand so that he could boast of his exotic and illustrious companion.

“That is a good boy,” said Roustam-Raza. “He has a little imagination—just enough to understand danger—but not too much, to make him afraid.” He dragged a sawhorse nearer to where Victoire stood and sat down as if the device made a comfortable seat. “What has happened?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” said Victoire, and began to recount her activities since the soirée at the Chateaubriands’ fashionable home. “It was seeing Querelle talking to Pichegru that most bothered me. Why should such a man as Querelle allow himself to be seen with Pichegru? And when I saw something pass between them, I feared that there might be treachery in it.”

“Why would you think that?” asked Roustam-Raza. “A man, with another man, there are many reasons for notes to be exchanged.”

“For men like Querelle, there can be no reason but advancement. If that advancement is through covert and devious methods, it is probably the more exciting for him.” She sighed. “I’ve been thinking about everything I observed yesterday, and the more I think of it, the more it troubles me.” She folded her damaged hands and walked down the row of box stalls. “I have thought about all I heard, but it was not enough for me to be certain.”

Roustam-Raza indicated her clothing. “Tell me why you resorted to this? You must have feared discovery to dress in this way.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I thought that Querelle would not bother to look at a rag-picker.” She cracked a single laugh. “And I was right as far as it went. If Montrachet had not come I would have got away handily. But I did not count on finding Montrachet again, not after what happened at the inn.”

“What are you talking about?” pleaded Roustam-Raza, who was becoming very confused. “Who is Montrachet? What about the inn?”

Victoire glanced over her shoulder toward the door, then said, “Yes, I suppose it does need more explanation than what I have provided.” She stopped walking and composed her thoughts. “You knew that Vernet was sent to the coast where he discovered rumors of a landing of English spies—”

“With your help, I surmise,” said Roustam-Raza.

“When it was needed,” said Victoire and paid no attention to the snort Roustam-Raza offered in comment. She told him what they had learned, of how she had come back to Paris by diligence, of Corporals Cruche and Feuille, who bungled their attempts to protect her, of the musician Montrachet breaking into her room, and her action against him. “I had feared something could happen, so I had kept a charged pistol by me.”

“Naturally,” said Roustam-Raza sardonically.

She described the shot and Montrachet’s escape, then began to discuss the most recent developments in Paris. “It was seeing Querelle with Pichegru that startled me, for Pichegru is beyond the pale just now. You are aware of that, of course.”

“He’s under suspicion,” said Roustam-Raza.

“Exactly,” Victoire confirmed. “That’s what rankled: Querelle with someone out-of-favor. Ordinarily such men are avoided. So why would a man like Querelle be willing to approach him, and at such a gathering, where it could be noticed by those he wanted to impress.”

There was a noise in the doorway as Jean-Adam returned, trailing a squad of apprentices and other curious youths. He carried a basket over one arm and a bottle of wine in the other hand, and as he started through the door, he turned back to his goggling audience. “You see? The First Consul’s dervish, just as I said.”

Roustam-Raza was about to upbraid the boy for his error when he saw Victoire signal him to silence. Slowly the Mameluke rose and offered the watchers a deep sala’am, which sent most of them scattering.

Jean-Adam grinned in delight as he stepped into the barn. “So. Here is bread, still hot, and cheese and butter, and broiled sausages, also hot. And wine.” This last he held up as if it were a trophy. “Andre the wine-merchant is a pig, but he has the best wines. He gave this to me for nothing, because of the Mameluke.”

Victoire did not know how to explain to Jean-Adam that Roustam-Raza was a devout Moslem and did not drink. Besides, she was ravenous, and the sight of food so near made her giddy. “Thank you,” she said, with a warning sign to Roustam-Raza to remain silent until all the boys but Jean-Adam were gone.

“And I thank you,” said Jean-Adam, beaming. “No one in this street has ever had such a visitor. My master will be able to say that the First Consul’s Egyptian servant came here. It will make him very happy.”

“How grand,” said Roustam-Raza gravely. He returned his attention to· Victoire with unseemly haste. “But you’ve sent for me, not for your husband or Murat.”

“My husband is out of town until tomorrow—” Victoire began.

“He returned last night,” Roustam-Raza corrected her, “and has been knocking on doors all over the city.”

Victoire blushed, hating her fair skin for giving her away so utterly. “How does it happen he came back early?”

Roustam-Raza made a gesture of uncaring ignorance. “He is back, and he and Murat have been insisting that a search be mounted for you. Therefore everyone in Paris is up in arms, Madame Vernet.”

Jean-Adam stared at the two with rapt fascination, drinking in all they said. His young, clever eyes shone.

“That’s unfortunate,” said Victoire, and hurried on to explain, her mouth watering as the scent of hot sausages went searching through the air. “It might well put the conspirators’ superior on the alert, which will make him all the harder to catch. I am troubled by everything I have discovered about this conspiracy.” She looked down at herself. “I think I must ask you to arrange for me to see Napoleon as soon as possible.”

The stable boy gasped.

“Late this afternoon it would be possible,” said Roustam-Raza in a thoughtful way. “I believe he will have returned from his hunting by then and will not yet have to be ready for his evening banquet. He has a fitting with Bastide at four, who is cast into gloom if Napoleon presents himself two minutes late—he is a most down-cast tailor. And as I recall, Constant will need to put him in order at six to have him presentable by seven. So if you will meet me at five, I think it can be arranged.”

Victoire nodded. “Good. In the meantime I shall strive to put myself into better fettle.” She tugged her shawls around her shoulders as she reached for the bread. “Pardon me, Roustam-Raza, but I must have something to eat.”

“Frenchwomen eat when they wish,” said Roustam-Raza philosophically. It had taken him some time to get used to this custom, for among Egyptians, men completed their meals before women were allowed to dine on their left-overs. “It will not offend me.”

“Good,” she said, tearing into the bread. She picked up one of the little sausages in her fingers and popped it into her mouth, blowing against its heat. As soon as she had swallowed, she said, “I want you to arrange for more guards on the First Consul. He is vulnerable to attack as he is. I will explain the reason to him myself, but I’m relying on you to put the guards on notice of the danger.”

“He will not like it,” Roustam-Raza warned.

“Possibly not,” said Victoire as she reached for another sausage; it tasted better than anything she could remember eating in the last three years. “But he will like even less being killed by his enemies, which I suspect is what may happen if we take no precautions.”

“He still will not like it,” said Roustam-Raza fatalistically. “But it will be done. You are correct to say it is essential.”

“Thank you,” said Victoire as she pulled off another mound of bread and spread it with butter. “I haven’t been this hungry in more than two years,” she said as she chewed.

“You were locked up then as well, I recall,” said Roustam-Raza, noticing how amazed Jean-Adam was. “Listen to me, boy,” he went on to the youngster. “You are hearing things that stable boys ought not to know. If I learn that you have repeated any of this, I will return and you will regret speaking.”

Jean-Adam went pale.

“But if you keep your silence and show that you are reliable, then there may come a time when I might recommend you for advancement.” He said the last very quietly. “A trustworthy servant is a treasure—an untrustworthy one is a traitor.”

“I ... I will say nothing,” said the boy, hoping it would be true.

“See that you remember this,” said Roustam-Raza, and once more gave his attention to Victoire. “I will take you to your house, Madame Vernet, and I will make the arrangements that need to be made. At five this afternoon I will expect you, at the side entrance, so that we may be more private.” He looked around the stable and at last his eyes settled on D’or. “That one. I want that one harnessed to a wagon, a wagon where Madame Vernet may rest and have her luncheon as I escort her to her husband.”

“D’or is—” began Jean-Adam.

“I will pay for her use. Name any reasonable amount.” He was already reaching for the wallet hanging from his sash. “I will have one of the Consular Guard bring them back before the end of the day.”

“But ...” Jean-Adam knew he was not supposed to rent out the horses, that only his master could do that. At the same time he could not resist the temptation. “All right,” he said. “If you will repeat that in front of Marie and Paul, I will strike a bargain with you.”

“Marie and Paul,” said Roustam-Raza, wanting more information.

“He wants witnesses, so that his employer will not beat him,” said Victoire as she swallowed the wine. “His employer may return before the horse is brought back. It’s a reasonable request, my friend.”

Roustam-Raza considered it. “Very well,” he said in a measured tone. “I will do it. Let us summon these people at once.”

Victoire put her basket aside reluctantly, but the worst of her hunger had been satisfied and now she was prepared to concentrate on making her plans.

“I’ll get Marie and Paul,” said Jean-Adam. “They’re just over the road.”

“Fine,” said Roustam-Raza, and watched as the stable boy rushed away. “And while he’s away, we will make our arrangements. The wagon is necessary. You will be able to ride unseen, Madame, which is desirable.”

“I agree. We don’t want anyone to know that I have returned home; it’s probably being watched. The men know who I am and it’s not difficult to find out where we live, not with Querelle to assist them.” She picked up the basket and did her best to straighten her rent and bedraggled clothes. “I think it would be wiser if we went to my house by the rear entrance, as if we were tradesmen.”

“Tradesmen? I fear, Madame Vernet, that we will have to find you another escort, one who can pass unnoticed.” Roustam-Raza indicated his Egyptian dress and his turban. “Do you suppose anyone would think me other than I am?”

To the Mameluke’s surprise Victoire nodded emphatically. “Yes. And ordinarily I would share your worry, for it would be a very bad thing if anyone learned I had returned until it suits our purpose. You are right, you are a very identifiable figure. And, yes, I think I may have hit upon a plan that will work.” She rubbed her hands together. “We make you not less than you are, but more,” she said.

“How more?” asked Roustam-Raza.

With growing enthusiasm Victoire explained.

* * *

The wagon attracted quite a lot of attention as it came down the street, its canvas flaps billowing in the wind, the streamers on the harness of the butter-colored horse composed of brightly dyed woolen braids. Most astonishing of all was the driver of the wagon, who was rigged out in a mountainous turban and enough striped canvas to make an awning—which, up until two hours before it had been; all those who had ever seen Napoleon’s Mameluke agreed that he was not half so fantastical as this spectacular creature. The wagon progressed along the street, the driver calling out now and again for Monsieur d’Jaffa in a high, loud voice. Twice the driver stopped and walked up the stairs of the house he had selected. He inquired of the occupant for the house of Monsieur d’Jaffa. Each time he was informed that he had not found the fellow in question, which appeared to cause him great distress, for he would cry aloud to Heaven that he was being deceived.

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.”