MV02 Death Wears a Crown (24 page)

“You were very young,” said Victoire, soothing her. “And Napoleon was more urgent then than he is now.”

“He was ardent and insistent. He was determined to have me.” It was difficult to determine if she took pride or shame in this admission; perhaps it was some of each. “He was the most dashing man I’d ever met, and the most heartless. He cared more for his desire than for me.” Her wordplay on her own name was bitter. She looked around the ballroom. “This and Bernadotte were the sop he gave me in return for everything he did to me.”

Victoire had rarely seen such humiliation as there was in the expression that passed over Desirée’s pretty features; she was troubled by it, and didn’t know how to respond. At last she shook her head and directed her gaze toward the ceiling. “It is unfortunate that so much love turned out so badly.”

For a moment Desirée looked as if she might weep, and then she changed and achieved a charming shrug. “It’s the way of the world, is it not?” She came up to Victoire’s side. “I’ll have the draperies, you know, and I’ll give the grandest entertainment that the Swedes have had since they arrived. There are seven days yet until the reception and ball. The drapers would have seven days, and the nights if that were necessary. They could transform everything in the ballroom, just as I want it. You’ll see. Everyone will say that this was the most elegant gathering other than the Coronation. Everyone.” Her smile widened. “Even Napoleon will say it.”

With a coldness growing in her bones, Victoire listened as Desirée went on about swags and sconces and wainscoting; all the while she wondered if Bernadotte or his wife was the one she was seeking.

* * *

“It’s too convenient,” said Vernet over supper that night. He had removed his tunic and donned his dressing-gown, a magnificent new garment of claret-colored velvet edged in quilted satin. As he sat facing Victoire across their dining table, he grinned at her and the lines of fatigue began to fade. “I was just thinking, as I watched you.”

“What were you just thinking?” she asked, more curious than flirtatious.

“That I feel like an eastern potentate.” His expression eased more and he settled more comfortably back into his chair. “Odette helped, with this sour-cherry duck. It seems Oriental to me.” He indicated the ruins of their meal.

“It was quite delicious,” agreed Victoire, who still had a little on her plate. “But what’s too convenient?”

“What?” Vernet inquired, puzzled.

“You said that it’s too convenient. I’d like to know what it is,” said Victoire, smiling as she had the last of her wine. “And why it’s convenient.”

“Oh, that,” said Vernet, retracing his mental steps. “I am finding it difficult to believe that Bernadotte is the villain Fouche thinks he is. He’s so obvious, and so very exposed. He was never so foolish in the field, to leave himself so vulnerable. I have found too much and found it too easily for me to believe that he is anything more than a handy dupe. I’ve explained my reservations to Fouche and Berthier, but I don’t know. Fouche wants to hold Bernadotte until the Coronation is over but the Swedes would raise a tremendous outcry if we so much as contemplated such a thing. It would be diplomatically distressing for everyone. That is another part of the puzzle: the damage of suspecting Bernadotte is very great, and very obvious.”

“Ah?” said Victoire, in order to encourage Vernet to continue.

“You have only to examine the circumstances and it becomes apparent that there are many reasons why nefarious persons might find it useful to direct suspicions on Bernadotte, not the least of which is the embarrassment it would bring to the Swedes, which could result in an international scandal.” He drank his wine in one long sip, then helped himself to one of the little rolled pastries Odette had made that afternoon. “Perhaps even forcing them into a formal alliance with England.”

“You and Berthier are in agreement about that?” asked Victoire, who recognized the concerns as ones she had heard many times from Berthier.

“Oh, yes. It’s Fouche who doesn’t believe in making the problem more complicated that it appears to be.” He shook his head. “He thinks that the Swedish presence is nothing more than a smoke screen.”

Victoire took time to think. “If there were one Swede, that might be reason enough to ignore the Swedish presence. But there is a whole embassy of them, a delegation for the Coronation, and they are directly connected to Bernadotte, his personal guests. I don’t think they can be dropped from the equation.” She braced her elbows on the table and folded her hands under her chin. “In fact, I think the Swedes might be crucial to the case regarding Bernadotte.” She paused to study the pattern of cut-work on the tablecloth. “Of course, there is Desirée, too. She is the other factor in Bernadotte’s life, isn’t she?” She did not look up.

“What did you make of her this afternoon?” Vernet asked.

“I don’t trust her.” For a few seconds she was silent. “She makes it very difficult to like her. It is easy to see that she enjoys making Bernadotte dance to her tune, and that she’s still, in some way I cannot define, tied to Napoleon.”

“You mean she loves him still,” said Vernet.

“No; in fact it may be the opposite. I think she may detest him quite profoundly.” She saw the startled expression in Vernet’s eyes, and did her best to explain. “I think to be made the object of his desire and determination when she was young was too ... overwhelming for her. And when he turned away, as he has from so many, and gave her to Bernadotte, I think she broke, somehow, like a bone in the leg, and never healed properly.” She stared into the candle flames. “It’s conjecture, but it is possible she would be pleased to have it appear that Bernadotte is Napoleon’s enemy, to have vengeance on him.”

“On Bernadotte?” asked Vernet, who was having some difficulty following her logic. “Why should she want to—”

“On Napoleon. She wants to wipe her feet on him, I think; on Napoleon.” She leaned back. “Gracious. I hadn’t realized until now how Desirée had troubled me, or why. I thought she was simply jealous, but I realize now it is more than that. Much more.”

“But you’re suggesting she might be capable of actual treason,” said Vernet, shaking his head.

“It could happen,” said Victoire cautiously. “Not as treason, precisely, but something more ... personal.”

“And you think that it has happened, is that it?” he inquired.

“I think,” she said, frowning with concentration, her gaze at a place distant from their dining room, “that if there is another group of spies we have failed to detect and apprehend—”

“Tales!” Vernet protested. “Merely an attempt to confuse us, and make us waste our efforts looking for chimeras instead of tracking down real traitors. Like Moreau.”

“What if they aren’t traitors? I know you and Fouche think that the name I heard, the English name, is the name of the ship’s captain who brought them here, but I don’t agree. I think that Mister Sackett-Hartley”—she handled the English pronunciation as well as she could—“is very real and is still in Paris. And I think we ignore him at our peril.”

“I have three men checking out the inns for suspicious Englishmen. But I don’t expect much from them. An Englishman in Paris,” scoffed Vernet. “We’d find him in an instant. None of them speak good French, and they are so ... so
English!”
He laughed. “Come, my dear. Don’t let yourself be taken in by these rumors and all the rest of it.” He reached over and touched the place on her jaw where a small cut from her escape had not quite healed. There were bruises on her body still, faded to a sickly yellow-green, like wilting flowers. “We’re sensible people, we French. We’re not like the Egyptians or the Italians, who see saints and spooks and spies in every nook and cranny. We have a fine tradition of police work in France, and we need to show that it will only improve when Napoleon is emperor. And that, Victoire, includes exercising rational judgment in cases like this one.”

“Certainly,” said Victoire without heat. “And that is the reason I find it difficult to cast either Bernadotte or Desirée in the role of conspirator. It is so irrational for either of them to undertake so dangerous a venture.” She chuckled. “Now, if it were Talleyrand, that would be different; he thrives on the draconian. I could believe he’d encourage a conspiracy, if only to destroy it in order to show how devoted he is to Napoleon and thereby gain the gratitude he does not deserve.” Her chuckles turned to laughter. “You need not bother to tell me that this is not sensible, and that I’ve these suspicions because I dislike and distrust Talleyrand. It’s all true, and I own it freely.”

Vernet made a gesture of mock surrender. “In that case, Madame, what can I say?” He reached out and took her hand. “All humor aside, my love, no more risks, if you please. I don’t like to see you exposed to danger.”

“Neither do I,” said Victoire with feeling. She pulled her spangled-silk shawl more closely around her shoulders and thought that the room had become uncomfortably cool. “I don’t enjoy narrow escapes.”

Vernet very nearly offered a sharp answer but managed to hold his tongue. “No, I don’t suppose you do,” he agreed.

THERE WERE
fine bits of snuff all across Berthier’s elaborate neck cloth and waistcoat, and he slapped at them with a plain linen handkerchief as he regarded Victoire seated on the far side of his office. “You have been through this with me before, Madame Vernet, and we do not yet understand one another.”

The man who had served as Napoleon’s chief of staff and key aide sat in an office in his home near the palace. On the desk in front of him were four neat piles of papers; several bore the embossed eagle emblem of Napoleon across their tops. At least one, Victoire noticed, was headed by the device of the Pope.

When she entered the room Berthier set aside his pen with the look of reluctance. Everyone knew how hard the man worked and for a brief instant Victoire felt guilty about interrupting him for what, she had to admit, were unsubstantiated assumptions. Without facts, Berthier was not inclined to be convinced, and said so.

“General Berthier, I understand your position very well. But I wish you to know that I still don’t agree. You say I have no evidence, but neither have you. You’ve chosen a convenient assumption—that the assassins are routed—and it may not be the safest.” She looked demure enough in her mulberry-colored walking dress, her fox-fur cloak folded over her arm, but there was nothing in her blue eyes that was tractable.

“And you persist in these tales of more conspirators,” said Berthier warily. “Your husband has a few men watching for your phantom Englishman.”

“A corporal and privates, in uniform yet. What good is that?” Victoire protested.

Berthier was not moved. “Do you realize the Pope will arrive here shortly? He left Rome less than a week ago. He is already looking for reasons to withdraw from the Coronation. This could provide him the perfect opportunity to return to the Vatican. If you continue to insist that there are English assassins waiting to kill Napoleon, His Holiness would have the excuse he needs to—”

“I’ll not tell the Pope. You have my word on it,” Victoire answered quite seriously.

“No.” Berthier paused for a long moment and added, “It’s absurd.” The aide regarded her with open curiosity. “Why are you being so persistent, Madame Vernet, when you know that there is nothing more to support your theory than inconsistencies in the suspect confessions of the spies we have caught? If you were in my position, I’d venture to say that you’d have the same attitude I do: that the prisoners are still trying to misdirect our efforts away from the highly placed French traitor to ephemeral English spies so that the miscreant may have a little more liberty to work his evil.”

“ ‘Work his evil,’ ” Victoire tried not to sound too annoyed. “A very good phrase, Berthier. You must save it for a more appreciative audience than I provide.” She gathered up her cloak. “Very well. If you are determined on your course, it appears I will have to find these Englishmen myself.”

Berthier was shocked. “Madame Vernet! Y-You’re not to engage in anything dangerous,” he protested, stammering with indignation.

“But you are certain there is no danger.” Victoire pointed out quite reasonably. “You’ve said so. Therefore you can have no objection to my project, can you? Rest assured that I’ll keep you informed of anything I learn.” She swung her cloak around her shoulders, glad of the warmth of it, for the morning was dank, with icy mists hanging near the river in the still air.

“Where are you going?” asked Berthier suspiciously. “I will not have you placing yourself in danger again. I’m still distressed by what became of you on your last venture.”

“I escaped,” said Victoire coolly. “And I’d do it again if it proved necessary.”

“Madame Vernet, you are a resourceful woman. I have no doubt of that. We are all grateful for your past services to Napoleon and France. But, if correct, you are facing men who are growing more desperate by the hour, and they will not hesitate to do you an injury, or worse.” He started to rise, then hesitated. “You are not going to try to find them again, are you?”

“These non-existent English spies? Not directly, no,” she said with what she intended to be a reassuring smile. “I thought I’d learn what I may about the whereabouts of Pichegru. He would appear to be the most important of all just at present. And he’s a genuine conspirator. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Pichegru?” questioned Berthier, astonished and horrified. “But surely, Madame Vernet, you cannot—”

“Yes, I can,” interrupted Victoire. “And then I must see my dressmaker for a fitting on my clothes for the Coronation: nothing too grand, you know, but suitable for the occasion.” She nodded once to Berthier. “Thank you for listening to me.”

“Madame Vernet—” Berthier began, already worried that she was being much too accommodating. She had been right too often in the past to not have aroused some concern in Berthier. But the aide reminded himself of the definite problems he had to resolve in the ten days remaining before the Coronation. “Let your husband and Fouche tend to the conspirators, Madame.”

Victoire pulled on her cloak. “You may believe what I’ve told you: if I learn anything of use, I will be certain to provide you with the information as soon as possible.” She let herself out of the door before Berthier could summon up arguments to use against her.

* * *

Roustam-Raza was not much more help when Victoire met with him later. “You are being reckless, Madame, very reckless.” There was a hint of resignation in his voice. “It is not suitable for you to mount the pursuit of these criminals.”

“Would you rather I concern myself only with ballgowns and jewels and which receptions to attend before the Coronation? Or perhaps I should be attending more to the fashionable life, meeting those men who can advance my husband’s career if I am charming enough, do you think?” Victoire asked innocently. “I know it would please Berthier to have me wasting my time on such twaddle.” She stared across the road toward the gray front of the stables.

“There are fetes and entertainments almost every night now; everyone is busy with them,” said Roustam-Raza, who did not entirely approve. “Most of the Marshalls are as preoccupied with their clothes as their wives are.”

“Which has become the obsession of half the wives in Paris,” she agreed with asperity. “But not of this wife,” she went on in a warning tone. “Let others worry about their jewels and the cut of their corsages and the color of their shoes, and whether they dare to darken their lashes with lampblack, or brighten their cheeks with rouge. I’ll busy myself with more compelling matters. Someone must find those spies.”

“And if they aren’t there to be found?” suggested Roustam-Raza. “There are twelve traitors in custody. Surely not even the English are mad enough to send more than that?”

Victoire was undaunted. “How convenient it would be if all our enemies did precisely what we expected them to do, and in the numbers we thought were reasonable.”

Roustam-Raza shook a disapproving finger at her. “You are being as stubborn as Fouche, Madame Vernet, and well you know it. It is your way to be determined. You have endured much, but the danger is over, and you need not fear to find spies in every closet. With thanks to Allah and your courage, they are all in custody. You have no reason to be afraid of these men now.”

“Nonsense,” said Victoire roundly. “Why must you all persist in seeing females as incompetents? I can recognize danger as readily as any man, and I do not mean phantasms and specters of the mind.” She indicated the street behind them. “Or do you suppose I’ve become foolish?”

“No,” said Roustam-Raza, “It would be easier for us all if you were foolish, but alas, Allah made you with a most unwomanly mind and an inability to sit still.” He gestured to show how hopeless it was to attempt to fathom Allah’s wisdom. “But you are set on a course to prove your point, aren’t you? And when you decide on such a course, you throw prudence and caution aside in favor of—”

Victoire made no apology for interrupting this tirade. “There are traitors who are seeking to murder Napoleon. They are in association with spies who will carry out their plans. I don’t see any error in trying to be certain that their schemes fail.” She had drawn on her gloves; now she lifted her hand to signal a cab to stop for her. “While the rest of you reassure one another that no danger remains, I’ll do whatever is in my power to stop any greater misfortune.” She saw a cabby draw in at the opposite corner. “We must find Pichegru, Roustam-Raza. And we must find the Englishman.”

Roustam-Raza shook his turbaned head. “But Madame Vernet, Fouche’s report says that—”

“Fouche! Has he followed any of these men? Has he heard them talk? I’m worn out with Fouche’s stubbornness. What if Fouche is wrong? I have no doubt that my husband, not Fouche, will receive the blame,” countered Victoire before she crossed the street and climbed into the waiting cab. “An inn near the Université,” she said, loudly enough for Roustam-Raza to hear. “Called La Plume et Bougie.”

* * *

Odette was still tacking sprays of artificial flowers on the shoulder of Victoire’s ballgown when Vernet announced that their carriage was waiting. They had been misted with perfume and smelled lovely.

“The Devil fly away with him,” whispered Victoire in aggravation, and was very nearly jabbed by her housekeeper’s needle. She called out, “Just a few moments longer, Vernet.”

“The coachman will not like to keep his team standing,” Vernet warned from the floor below. “Hurry.”

Victoire met Odette’s eyes in the pier-glass. “How much longer?”

“There is one more spray, that’s all,” said Odette through the pins she held in her mouth. “Two minutes, perhaps three.”

“I will be down directly,” called Victoire, and inspected herself in the mirror critically, looking for those imperfections that would earn her condemning looks. At least the ballgown itself was acceptable, being another successful product of ingenuity and her mother’s old gowns. This one was of heavy bronze silk in a damask pattern, with short puffed sleeves and elaborate beadwork in a pattern of laurel wreaths on the corsage; the artificial flowers were Royaume d’esprit, as delicate and feathery as sun-struck spiderwebs.

Odette tied off the thread and went to work on the last of the artificial flowers. “Don’t forget to put your cloak on carefully, or these could be damaged,” she warned as she stitched. “They’re very fragile.”

“I will be careful,” Victoire promised.

“And no chasing off across Paris in these clothes. The way you appeared three days ago after that attempt to find the remaining spies ... That frock cannot be made clean again. I don’t know what it is you have on the hem. I have not been able to get it out but I will not dispose of it until I try to clean it. This gown must be for the reception, and not for racing about after spies. I want your word on it.” Although this was said in a jocular way, it was clear that Odette was serious. “Be sure you take care with the train, as well. Don’t let anyone stand on it if you can help it.”

“I’ll be careful,” Victoire assured, reminding herself that she would have to kick backward whenever she turned or risk snagging her own ankles in the fabric.

“Well, then,” said Odette, and set the last stitch. “There. Your gloves are on, your tiara is in place, your choker is fastened, your shoes are without blemish, and that color becomes you, Madame.” She reached for the cloak and set it carefully over Victoire’s shoulders. “Make sure that you do not get wax on you, if you can. Be careful where you stand, so that the chandeliers—”

“I’ll be careful,” Victoire said, and hurried out the door, her reticule clutched in one hand along with her long silken fan, her other hand holding her cloak closed.

Vernet was watching for her, one hand on the front latch, his handsome face marred by an impatient frown. “I don’t want Murat saying I’ve done anything to his horses,” he muttered as he held the door open for her. “He won’t arrive until later in the evening, with Napoleon. If he receives a poor report—”

“He won’t,” said Victoire, hurrying down the stairs to where the footman waited to hand her up into the carriage. “And I doubt he’d believe it if he received one. He knows you are not inconsiderate.”

“I’m not entirely certain I like the loan of the carriage at all,” Vernet continued as he prepared to climb into the vehicle behind her.

“Murat was merely trying to help,” said Victoire. “As he is with the First Consul tonight he does not need his carriage.”

“He has already loaned you money, and he—” Vernet broke off as he sat back against the squabs. “The other day I encountered that painter cousin of mine—yesterday, in fact,” he said, deliberately changing the subject.

“Carle Vernet?” asked Victoire, a little surprised that Vernet had abandoned the subject of Murat so abruptly.

“Yes. He was preparing to paint the Polish troopers who have come for the Coronation. I never know what to make of him, or any of that part of the family. They seem like foreigners; we are only second cousins.” He straightened the fall of his pelisse, which was stiff with bronze-and-gold braid. “He, well, Carle and Horace are giving an entertainment for David in four weeks, after the Coronation, when they can all display their sketches of the event. He asked me if we would like to attend.”