MV02 Death Wears a Crown (28 page)

Odette had finished sweeping the three fireplaces in the house and was about to tackle the tremendous and messy work of cleaning the stove; she slapped at her heavy apron and gestured in exasperation. “Who does not want that from time to time?”

“Ah, but this is so constant,” said Victoire, glancing around the kitchen. “The carpenters will arrive here eventually in the morning, and when you finish cursing them, it’ll be better.” She drew up one of the chairs and sat down. “But I must say that it is pleasant to have a few hours to myself, and the chance to loosen my stays.”

Odette laughed, and gave herself a little more time before starting her unwelcome task. “I have hopes that we’ll have some winter vegetables this year. I put the seedlings in last month and thus far they are growing.”

“Excellent,” said Victoire. “You’re doing very good work, Odette, and I know I have not noticed it as I ought.”

“There’s too much occupying your thoughts,” said Odette.

“And there will be for some little time to come,” said Victoire. “Do forgive me for the oversights I know I have committed.” She chuckled once. “It is a compliment to you, in a way, for it means that you are running the house so smoothly that it requires little of my attention.”

“It’s a pleasure to me.” Odette pushed her hair back from her face. “I’d rather be left to do my work properly than have to answer to you for everything I undertake. I know of such mistresses, and I want no part of them.”

“And a good thing it is,” said Victoire with feeling. “As you haven’t one such.”

Odette grinned. “So I know.” She was about to add a quip when a sharp rap at the back door caught her attention, and she turned toward it in surprise.

“It is late in the afternoon for a tradesman,” said Victoire.

“I expect no tradesmen,” said Odette, her surprise giving way to alarm. “Do you think—”

The knock was repeated, this time more loudly.

“I think it would be wise to answer the door,” said Victoire, rising and starting toward it herself.

Odette quickly moved to lift the latch and peer out into the darkness. “Who is it?” she demanded in a loud tone.

There was little light spilling from the kitchen to the porch next to the pantry, but it was possible to make out a single figure standing in the shadows. A soft voice said, “Is Mad-dame Vernet ... is s-she here?”

Odette stared at the young man. “Those who seek Madame Vernet do not come to this door,” she said at her most imposing.

“Is she here?” the young man persisted. “It is very imp-portant.”

Victoire had risen and now said, “It’s all right, Odette. Let him in.”

Disapproving, Odette stood aside. “Enter,” she ordered the young man.

Brezolles came hesitantly into the kitchen, like a cat uncertain of his reception.

“Madame Vernet,” he said, bowing in good form.

“You have the advantage of me, Monsieur,” said Victoire.

“I ought not t-tell you,” he said, looking embarrassed.

Odette scowled, but Victoire only shrugged. “If that is how it must be, then—” She indicated one of the chairs. “Be seated, and tell me what you are doing here; why did you want to see me?”

Brezolles ignored the chair. “We want to leave France, most of us. Things have gone b-badly for us.”

“Most of you want to leave,” said Victoire, doing her best to conceal the eagerness that spread through her.

“Yes. The C-Corsican is too closely g-guarded.” His gaze shifted to Odette guiltily. “We want only to b-be gone.”

“Who are the ‘we’ you speak of?” Victoire had been listening to the stammering young man closely, admiring his aristocratic accent, but hearing something else in how he spoke, a subtle shift of rhythm that hinted of the cadences of another language. “The English?” she guessed.

“Two are English,” Brezolles said. “The rest are French.”

“Aristos,” said Victoire. “Those who fled the Revolution.”

“A good thing they are gone,” said Odette. “They plundered the country.”

“The C-Corsican has done worse,” said Brezolles, his eyes brightening.

“And you seek to restore the old order?” Victoire asked.

Brezolles straightened up. “Yes,” he declared. Then his pride deserted him. “But we c-can’t do it now. Most of us want t-to leave.”

“Not all,” Victoire said.

“No,” Brezolles admitted. He looked nervously around the kitchen as if he expected to see soldiers appear.

“You worked with Pichegru and his ... associates?” Victoire asked. “You are one of those who took me captive?” She had not intended to make this accusation, and the intensity of her feeling took her aback.

“It was Mont-trachet who ...” Brezolles took a step backward. “I did not like it.” He bowed again, this time apologetically. “S-Sackett-Hartley would never have allowed it.”

“Sackett-Hartley!” Victoire exclaimed. There was that English name again. Her senses became keener as she stared at Brezolles. “You were not arrested with the others.”

“No.” He stared down at his feet. “We were not caught.”

“How many are you?” Victoire asked.

“Eight. Two English, six French.” He cleared his throat as if that could diminish his stammer. “If you would h-help us, I’d tell you where P-Pichegru is.”

“And who his allies are?” Victoire asked as she fought off a ripple of dread.

“I reg-gret, I do not know who they are,” admitted Brezolles.

Victoire sighed in aggravation, convinced that the young man had told her the truth, for if she were part of such a conspiracy, she thought, she would make sure that as many of the conspirators as possible were unknown to one another. “That’s very inconvenient,” she remarked; there was a ball that night, starting at nine in the evening, and she had to appear there. Failure to be present would be a severe embarrassment to Vernet. No matter what this young man told her, she would not be able to act on what she learned until the following morning, and by that time Pichegru might be gone. “All right. Where is Pichegru?”

“Swear you will help-p us,” insisted Brezolles.

“I can’t do that,” Victoire said reasonably. “You must understand that. But I will give you my word that I will not send soldiers after your company of men.” As she promised this, she reminded herself that even had she wanted to summon soldiers, it was not likely that they would be available.

“For two days,” said Brezolles, pressing for what small advantage he could.

“All right,” said Victoire, determined now to find Pichegru herself; without doubt Fouche would refuse to order his men to action on Victoire’s request, in any case.

“Two full d-days,” Brezolles insisted.

“No soldiers for two days,” she affirmed.

Odette crossed herself and muttered a few words.

“Very well,” said Brezolles, and took a long breath.

“Pichegru is at the old Jesuit rectory near Vincennes. He is using the name Gambais.”

“Is he alone?” Victoire asked, feeling her pulse race.

“His remaining men are in the t-town; they won’t be there long,” said Brezolles. “Two days,” he reminded her. “So t-that we can leave.”

“Two days,” Victoire agreed; if she could find Pichegru, she thought, it would not matter that a few English spies escaped.

Brezolles was sidling toward the door, eager now to be gone. “You g-gave me your word,” he reminded her.

“And I will abide by it,” she said. As she watched Brezolles open the porch door, she thought of one more thing. “When does Pichegru intend to strike again?”

“I don’t k-know,” said Brezolles, and pulled the door closed behind him.

Odette rushed to set the bolt in place, then turned to stare at Victoire. “What do you think, Madame Vernet?” she asked breathlessly.

Victoire shook her head slowly. “I won’t know until I visit the Jesuit rectory in Vincennes. If Pichegru is there, I can summon Vernet to apprehend him; if not, we should remain quiet. There is always the chance the man was sent to cause me to embarrass Vernet and destroy my credibility. I must assure myself Pichegru is there.” She paid no heed to Odette’s shocked exclamation, but started to pace the kitchen. “That ball tonight, if only it were not necessary to attend.”

“Surely you would not go to Vincennes at night,” Odette protested.

“Not tonight, certainly,” said Victoire, annoyed. “It can’t be helped.” But it was possible that she might make an early start, she decided. If she could persuade Murat to lend her one of his light carriages, and if she could get away shortly after sunrise, she might be able to apprehend General Pichegru.

“What is it, Madame?” asked Odette apprehensively.

Victoire made herself stop pacing and offer Odette a reassuring smile. “Wishful thinking, I fear.” She touched her neat coronet of braids. “Come. Give me a hand with my hair. The stove will wait.”

MURAT LOOKED
tired, and for once he was simply dressed in sensible clothing: woolen breeches and double-breasted riding coat, high cavalry boots, and an engulfing three-caped greatcoat which he wore with the collar up against the misty rain. A low-crowned beaver hat covered his glossy hair. He leaned down from the spider’s rear-mounted driver’s box and offered Victoire an ironic bow. “I trust your husband will not have my ears for this.”

“What are you doing here?” Victoire asked as she gathered her cloak more closely around her. It was not long after sunrise but the rain held the dark, so that lanterns burned at the pantry door of the Vernets’ house. “When I asked for the loan of one of your carriages, I never intended that you—”

“Your husband is on station at the palace with an entire company of gendarmes to reinforce the Consular Guard. We were both sure our arguments at the ball hadn’t dissuaded you from this dangerous mission. I’m almost hurt you thought I would let you go careering across the countryside after a dangerous criminal with no more escort than a coachman,” Murat interrupted her. “What a fine opinion you must have of me.”

“I have a very high opinion of your good sense,” said Victoire, “and I didn’t suppose you would lose sight of it now. I have no intention of storming the ramparts on my own, or fighting the man in single combat. I don’t need more than a coachman to determine if Pichegru is truly in Vincennes.”

Murat snorted. “Well, you’ll have me for escort or you will walk to Vincennes,” he said bluntly. “Since you’re determined on such an impetuous course—and it
is
an impetuous course—I’ll do what I can to keep you from harm. And I’ll pray your husband will not call me out for this.”

“There is no reason he should,” said Victoire at her most reasonable. “A tandem team,” she went on, deliberately changing the subject. “You must expect driving some narrow roads.” A two-horse team hitched lead-and-wheel instead of side-by-side as a pair was not often seen in Paris.

“I can think of many reasons why Vernet might be upset, and no, I will not be distracted by observations about my horses,” answered Murat testily.

Victoire settled herself in the high-wheeled light carriage, taking care to wrap the heavy rug Murat had provided around her legs. “I think you are being much too cautious, and undoubtedly you are absenting yourself from important events,” she cajoled. Murat could hardly afford half a day for this gesture. “We could stop at your hotel, and you could—”

“But I won’t,” he cut her off. “In fact, I would prefer to take a squad of my own cavalry with us, in case these criminals are truly hiding there. But that could mean an argument with Fouche, and just at present I want to be spared that. Besides, their approach would give warning to Pichegru if he truly is at the Jesuit rectory, and that is the last thing we want.” He had set his team at a steady trot, heading eastward through the city as the sun strove to lighten the heavy clouds.

“I am confident that we will have the element of surprise, and that more force will not be needed.” As she said it, the notion sounded incredibly naive, even to her, but she lifted her chin and added defiantly, “Besides, Murat, you and I have faced far worse than Pichegru before, and won through.”

“Madame Vernet,” said Murat with asperity, “I don’t plan to be nearly killed again for you to prove a point.”

“Why should you be? Not that you expected it two years ago, either. But Murat, be sensible. Surely this is much less dangerous than that escapade,” she teased, trying to enjoy herself. Little as she wanted to admit it, Murat’s company was more reassuring than she had anticipated; now that he was driving her, she began to consider the danger they could encounter, and the adventure. “We are not entering a trap, after all. They do not know we are coming,” she said, as much to herself as to him.

“So you hope,” corrected Murat as he guided his team around an ox-drawn wagon filled with open cages of lambs, bound for the Tuileries’ kitchens.

“I think my informant was desperate enough to keep his word,” Victoire declared, recalling the fear she read in Brezolles’ eyes.

“I don’t know why I ought to believe you,” he said. “If they’re prepared to be found, we’ll have to abandon any hope of capturing them. In fact, if there’s any sign of them, we retreat instantly and I’ll order out the Guard Lancers to capture them and count ourselves lucky to be out of it.”

She turned around as far as the seat would let her, trying to meet Murat’s eyes. “You don’t think we’re going to find them, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” said Murat. “But I think, if they have really been hiding there, that someone could tell us where they have gone and what they are planning. And that information, Victoire, is what I expect we will find. And that is worth a wet drive out of Paris.”

She considered what he said, and allowed inwardly that he was probably correct. She faced forward again. “I am hoping for something more—I’d like to know who near the First Consul has been helping Pichegru.”

“Need I remind you that’s the more dangerous person,” said Murat emphatically, then added, “and I fear, the more crucial.” He went on for some time in silence, his mind on driving, or so Victoire supposed. Eventually he said, “It is the ally we must find, not Pichegru. Without finding the hidden traitor, the known one is useless, whether we capture him or not.”

“I would not call Pichegru useless,” argued Victoire.

“But you understand me, don’t you?” asked Murat.

“Oh, yes,” said Victoire, her mind running very fast. “I understand.”

Like most church property, the monastery at Vincennes had been confiscated by the Directoire early in the Revolution. For a few years it had served as the barracks for a demi-brigade; then it had been converted into an inn for tradesmen and others who could not afford to stay in high-priced Paris establishments.

The former chapel now served as the main room and was filled with long, rough tables. It was early enough that only a few people were eating and the floor was still stained from the wine spilled the night before. Victoire’s traveling shoes stuck on half-dried scraps as she waited for Murat to inquire about the presence of Monsieur Gambais. He returned, taking Victoire by the arm and hurrying her out of the building.

“The innkeeper thought you were my mistress and we sought a secluded room,” he began in disgust. “And he did not even know me.”

Victoire wasn’t sure which annoyed Murat more, the accusation of philandering or the lack of recognition. She remained tactfully silent.

“He is still here,” Murat informed. “He is in a room along the back of the second building. I told the innkeeper he was a distant relative we wished to surprise. I doubt he believed me, but that and a few sous gained us this key to his room.” Murat hurried to his spider and lifted one of the seats. Under it was a dark wood box containing two pistols. He handed one to Victoire for charging as he tended to the other. “At Aboukir surprise gained me victory.”

“He’s not expecting us,” Victoire agreed.

“Us?” Murat looked concerned. “Your husband would never forgive me should I put you at risk again.”

She could see from the determined set of the Marshall’s handsome features that he would not listen to her protests. “We can’t have that.”

“Then you stay here. Let me handle it,” Murat said, a bit surprised at the easy victory; he started toward the old rectory before she changed her mind.

Victoire smiled as he walked away and waited until he was inside the building before moving toward the rear of the building.

The old rectory was surrounded by a shoulder-high wall, now pitted where the soldiers used it for musket practice. The area around the rectory was hard-packed dirt, now smirched with refuse and waste. Victoire stepped carefully, trying to not stain the hem of her woolen traveling cloak. At one point she had to climb over a small wooden fence that formed an enclosure in which sheep bound for Paris could be held. Victoire was shivering—and, not entirely from cold—as she rounded the flank of the rectory. She was shocked to see a figure crouched about ten paces ahead of her, facing in the opposite direction. Victoire recognized Pichegru: he held a pistol aimed through the window and as she watched drew back the hammer.

Pichegru had been warned, and now he waited to ambush Murat.

As Victoire raised her own pistol she wondered if she could hit the man at so great a distance. The blighting distress of Murat’s danger closed in on her like steel chains. Cocking her own pistol, Victoire took as steady an aim as she could and fired. Her aim was off, too far to the right, and the ball glanced off the wall several feet short of Pichegru.

Chips of brick struck the man on the side of his face and shoulder; he was already turning in response to the report. Howling with pain and rage, Pichegru leveled his pistol at Victoire.

A shot exploded; Victoire flinched, expecting agony.

Instead Pichegru spun away, the pistol blown from his hand by the shot Victoire thought was intended for her. Pichegru stumbled away from her, clutching his arm to his chest. He clambered over the fence and was lost to sight.

Victoire stared after him, and wished for a second pistol. She felt eager and weak at once.

Moments later Murat, a smoking pistol in one hand and his sabre raised in the other, came around the corner. “Are you all right?” he demanded.

“He was waiting for you,” Victoire explained in a rush. “He would have shot you.”

“Did you not realize that he would fire back if you missed?” Murat asked incredulously. “Any soldier knows to do that.”

“I wanted to kill him.” Victoire’s pulse raced and she fought off the faintness that washed through her.

“So did I,” said Murat, offering her his arm. “I think this is a draw for honors, don’t you?”

She wanted to laugh but when she did, tears filled her eyes. “We have to find him.”

Murat shook his head. “He’s long gone. I heard a couple of horses gallop off as I came up to you.” He looked at her steadily. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, chagrined that he should see her cry. “I’m furious,” she said. “I always cry when I’m—”

Murat put one finger to her lips. “I know.”

* * *

The note was in the same neat, perhaps feminine hand. Sackett-Hartley took it from Isabeau and made a point of kissing her before he broke the seal and spread the single sheet to read.

Arrive at the place before midnight at the animals’ door; you will be admitted. Take your position in the highest gallery, in case the general should fail, and permit him the first strike. Leave in the confusion when the tyrant is gone.

Your friend

“The animals’ door?” Sackett-Hartley wondered aloud.

“Saint Anthony’s door,” said Isabeau, sliding one arm around him and nuzzling his neck. “Your friend means the Cathedral, doesn’t she?”

“Why do you say she?” asked Sackett-Hartley, becoming anxious as he read the note a second time. He moved a few steps away from Isabeau, concentrating on his instructions.

Isabeau came after him. “That’s a woman’s handwriting.” There was a hint of jealousy in her voice.

“Or a very fussy man’s,” said Sackett-Hartley, “Someone who works all day at a desk, preparing endless reports and other papers.” He looked around the small lobby as if he feared being overheard.

“A woman’s,” she insisted, reaching as if to pluck it from his grasp.

“Perhaps one who was taught in the religious schools and retained their style. More likely a dandy’s,” said Sackett-Hartley, holding it where she could not reach it. “One of those overdressed fops; they often cultivate feminine handwriting, to make them appear more sensitive and elegant.” He paused. “My uncle used to affect that pose—made everyone think he was a trivial sort of fellow—but his handwriting was nothing like this.”

“You may be right,” said Isabeau, wanting to be convinced. “We will decide it is a lace-and-scent man, wed to his desk. And it is true that I prefer it be a man, Magnus. It would distress me to have a rival.”

“You have none, my dear,” said Sackett-Hartley, and took a turn about the room. “And forgive me for being distracted. I have been worried for my men, afraid that they might suffer the same fate as Montrachet and his ... And I was beginning to think that we had lost our opportunity altogether. Instead, I find that we are to go directly into the heart of the evil. Waiting is very hard.”

She did what she could to console him. “Your associates will be at Isle-Adam by now. There is a ferry across the Oise at Isle-Adam. They will be well-hidden by nightfall, in the care of those you can trust.” She rubbed her palm against the back of his neck. “It’s arranged and the fee paid. The cooper is ready to help you. You will escape.” She said this last sadly.

He reached out and took her hand, kissing it before saying, “Ah, Isabeau, if it were not for this business, I would hate to leave you,” he said, and was partly sincere. “But I have sworn to do my duty, and—”

She went on as if reciting a lesson. “The preparations are complete. There will be ten barrels in his load, and all but one will contain lamp oil. It will not be comfortable, but you will be safe, and when the cooper reaches Amiens, your own men will be waiting for you. From there you can reach the coast without trouble.” Isabeau watched Sackett-Hartley speculatively, as if trying to discern his feelings.