MV02 Death Wears a Crown (12 page)

“No; the fashion has changed,” said Victoire with a slight frown.

“Perhaps you will renew the fashion,” said Odette. She tweaked the back of the robe where it fell in a short train. “Try not to let anyone step on this. I don’t think the piecing will hold.”

“Nor do I,” said Victoire, and wrapped the shawl around her shoulders a second time, thinking that she would be pleased when fashion dictated something a trifle warmer for correct evening wear.

“The coach will be here in ten minutes, Madame,” said Odette as she glanced anxiously at the clock. “With just the one footman.”

“Don’t start on that again, Odette,” said Victoire without heat. “A coach is an extravagance, and two footmen would be completely unreasonable. Besides, I do not expect to be waylaid by highwaymen in the middle of Paris.”

“There are others who could attack the coach,” said Odette darkly.

“But they will not, not tonight. Fouche has put men on the street to ensure public safety. The Swedes have insisted on it. Not that I blame them, of course, but it is perhaps too much caution. Besides, these autumn nights are getting cold, and no robber wants to let his fingers get so stiff he cannot pull a trigger.” Victoire reached for her reticule—it was her best one, with beading and pearls worked all over it. “But I am pleased you are concerned for my safety.”

“If Inspector-General Vernet were here—” Odette began.

“Well, he is not. And I am capable of fending for myself, after all,” said Victoire, suppressing a pang of loneliness. “He will be back by the first of the week, and then you need not worry so much that I might be waylaid.”

“And are you carrying a charged pistol?” asked Odette, not entirely in jest.

“No, but I must suppose the footman will,” said Victoire, unflustered. “And the coachman may well be armed, too.” She took a last look at her reflection, then started toward the door. “You need not wait up for me.”

Odette shook her head. “I will meet you when you come in, Madame, no matter what the hour. You cannot get out of those clothes without help, and after all the work we have done these last three days, I will not let you tear that lace, which you will unless I help you.”

Victoire knew she was right. “Very well,” she said, and started down the newly repaired stairs.

“It is a pity, Madame, that you cannot wear that dress on more than one occasion,” said Odette as she watched Victoire descend.

“It certainly is,” said Victoire with feeling.

* * *

Victoire completed her deep court curtsy to the Swedish Ambassador, and as she rose noticed the fixed expression in his prominent blue eyes. He must be exhausted with greeting so many guests, she thought to herself. I wonder if he will remember anyone? She accepted the soft-voiced pleasantries and answered with some equally inane, then passed on to Bernadotte, resplendent in his court uniform. Again she curtsied, but not as deeply as she had to the Ambassador. “Good evening, General.”

“Good evening, Madame Vernet,” he responded, bowing to kiss her hand. “You are an elegant sight. How very kind of you to come.”

“You are very gracious,” said Victoire. “I was surprised when your invitation came, for this is a very grand occasion. It is an honor to be included.” She knew it was what he wanted to hear; she curtsied again and went on to Desirée. “Good evening, Madame Bernadotte.”

“Madame Vernet,” said Desirée, a faint twist of annoyance in her smile. “How kind of you to come.”

“The kindness, Madame, was your invitation,” said Victoire in proper form. “I am most appreciative that you would remember me.”

“A pity your husband is not here,” said Desirée, and she could not entirely conceal her spite. “But that is the fate of an officer’s wife, isn’t it?”

“Very true, but he will return shortly.” Victoire said, telling Desirée what most certainly she knew.

“How fortunate. Such an attractive man ought not to be left alone too long.” She looked sly as she motioned Victoire away so that she could greet the next man in line.

NAPOLEON ARRIVED
amid a flurry of slamming doors and scurrying servants. Behind him were several generals, including Moreau, St. Cyr, Pichegru, and Ney, whose height and bright red hair made him easy to identify. Victoire had seen most of these men at various events she and Vernet were now required to attend.

Napoleon moved rapidly through the crowd, aides dashing competitively about to bring him a drink or sweet-meat. With him was his step-son Eugene, who had much of his mother’s dark beauty but none of her wit. The generals, Victoire was told, had been with Napoleon to Berthier’s estate hunting rabbits. They stood quietly near the entrance and sipped claret. For all the rushing about him, Napoleon managed to give the impression of calm among the chaos. He had something to say to each of the important men in the room. Roustam-Raza, his Mameluke guard, hovered a few steps behind him.

The tall Egyptian looked about the room and then smiled as he saw Victoire. Then he returned to staring threateningly at everyone who approached Napoleon.

As always, Napoleon’s visit was brief: the First Consul’s party was leaving less than twenty minutes after it arrived. From the alcove Victoire watched as the illustrious group vanished, leaving a great vacancy in the entrance to the embassy. She noticed a spot of wax on her corsage and sighed; it had dropped from one of the hundreds of candles in the tremendous chandeliers overhead. She tried to work it off with her fingernail but without success. So preoccupied was she that she did not notice the approach of a handsome, dark-haired man of moderate height in a magnificent dress uniform.

“Nothing damaged, I hope,” said General Joachim Murat, bowing slightly to her.

Victoire looked up sharply. “Murat,” Victoire was delighted to see him. “How are you, my friend.” She curtsied and held out her hand to him.

“Well enough,” said Murat with a hitch to his shoulders before he brushed the back of her gloved hand with his lips. “I did not realize you would be here.”

“Meaning that this is a trifle above my touch. Yes. It rather surprised me, as well, but after General Bernadotte and his wife did me the honor of calling on me, I could not refuse the invitation.” She said it very calmly, and Murat’s brows rose speculatively.

“Well, well, well,” he said. “I wonder what they’re up to now?”

“Exactly so; it strikes you as suspicious as well,” said Victoire. She gave him an ironic smile. “I do not grasp why they decided to invite me.”

“Your husband is not back in Paris by any chance, is he?” asked Murat.

A liveried servant went by, a tray bearing glasses filled with champagne held aloft. Murat took two glasses and handed one to Victoire.

“Thank you,” said Victoire. “No, my husband is not yet back in Paris, which gives me pause. He is expected shortly, but ...” She indicated that she was alone with a gesture of her free hand.

“Perhaps they are hoping that you will be their advocate with him,” said Murat, touching the rim of his glass to hers. “Do you know why they should want an advocate?”

“No; but I suspect you’re right, it is something like that, but I cannot think why they need my good opinion, or why they want to influence my husband.” She sipped the champagne, then looked over the rim at him. “Your wife is here, of course.”

“Just at present she is talking with Pichegru. You can see her, over there in the dress with the green velvet train.” He looked at her then directed his gaze toward the entrance to the ballroom. “She is irked because her brother would not stay. She wants to be Napoleon’s favorite, so that the whole world knows it.”

“It would not hurt you if Napoleon gave more time to your wife, for you would share in the sister’s favor, wouldn’t you,” said Victoire, who had always found the First Consul’s sisters puzzling women. “That family is worse than the Consulate.”

Murat shrugged philosophically. “It is why Napoleon has such skill in the Consulate, I suspect. Dealing with his family has given him superior training. At the moment the quarrels are about Lucien marrying the widow, but in a week or a month or two it will be something else. At least Pauline has a favorite now, and so she is not running through the generals and Marshalls with her usual abandon.”

Victoire nodded. “How do you like being a Bonaparte by marriage?” It was a tactless question, but she hoped that Murat was enough her friend that he would not require her to be more diplomatic.

“It is not quite what I expected it would be,” said Murat candidly. “Not that it hasn’t some very fine aspects to offer. It is very flattering to have Caroline dote on me, but there is a price to her adoration: her ambitions are as tremendous as her brother’s. I don’t mind that in a leader like Napoleon—in fact, I think ambition is a most desirable attribute in such a man—but in a wife ...” He looked directly at her. “The trouble is, Victoire, that I find her desire for advancement and power very seductive.” He hesitated. “At least I am still ambivalent about it. I fear the day when Caroline will have persuaded me with her promises of position and glory.”

Victoire regarded him very seriously. “I do not wish to speak against your wife, but if she awakens that sort of appetite in you, Murat, she has done you no service.”

“If I cannot achieve it, possibly.” Murat lowered his voice. “That is the trouble, good friend. Why not seize the day, take the golden cup? I look around me, and the generals are all scrambling to reach the heights. Look at Bernadotte and the Swedes, and he is not the only one. Napoleon has it in him to offer crowns to us now, and if he is giving them out to his relatives, why should my wife and I hang back?”

“Murat!” whispered Victoire, shocked.

“Those are the notions I regret.” He glanced around. “You must tell me, Victoire, if I go beyond the limits.”

“You are sensible enough to know for yourself,” she said at once.

“I would like to think so, but I begin to suspect it may not be true, and so I ask you to be my good angel. God knows you have been so before.” His blue eyes grew distant. “In Egypt, and two years ago. No one could ask for a stauncher friend than you. If ever there were anyone trustworthy for this task, it is you.” His expression lightened. “And you are less impressed with rank and finery than any woman I know. You have never been dazzled by splendid uniforms or fine titles.”

“I should hope not,” said Victoire with asperity. “Murat, what is the matter with you? Are you consumed with melancholy?”

“That is the quality I mean—your dedication to seeing things as they are.” He smiled at her, not the gracious political smile he used with most people, but with mischief, as if he were still an impish seminarian.

“You are making too much of a practical turn of mind,” she said, having no other way to acknowledge what was to her profound praise.

“No, I am not. It is your greatest virtue and most tenacious sin,” said Murat, finishing the last of his champagne.

“For heaven’s sake, Murat,” she said, growing confused. “What a capricious mood you are in tonight.”

“Actually, I’m not,” said Murat. “But I am bored with these grand functions that eat up so much time. It takes me back to the days when I was in school, and we had to memorize page after page of Greek and Latin. There came a point when I would have preferred to learn German, just for variety.” He found a small table and there he put his empty champagne glass. “Since it would be very unwise of me to avoid these receptions and balls, I put my mind to my task, and rejoice when we have the opportunity for a little conversation.”

This assurance did not satisfy Victoire. “Murat, what is the matter?” she insisted.

“I’ve told you,” said Murat. “And I have never been more serious in my life.” He indicated the room with a wave of his hand. “This is a very heady brew, and few can resist it. I am putting my faith in you, Madame Vernet. I am asking you—very humbly, whether it seems so or not—to help me keep from being entirely sucked in.”

Victoire regarded him seriously. “All right, if that is what you truly want, I give you my word I will do what I may to warn you if I perceive you are too caught up in the life of the court.”

“It is not a court quite yet but it is getting there,” said Murat. He cleared his throat. “We’ve been talking long enough—much more and tongues will wag, which will not do either of us any good.” He lifted her hand and bowed over it. “I will visit you day after tomorrow, in the afternoon, if that is convenient?”

“Certainly,” said Victoire. “Will your wife be with you?”

“I think not,” said Murat. “I chose the day she is engaged to spend the afternoon with her family.” He started to move away from her, his political smile fixed firmly over his teeth.

“But Murat—” Victoire protested, then stopped. She realized he had been right when he warned her that they could create comment—it had happened before. She moved out of the alcove and looked around the ballroom.

More than twenty couples were dancing, but the greatest number of guests were busy with conversations. A dozen high-ranking officers in elaborate dress uniforms stood around the Ambassador, seeking to establish a place with the Swedes, who were much in favor with the First Consul.

“Well, and what do you make of it?” said Marshall Louis Alexandre Berthier as he came up to her, bowing before he took her hand. He was rigged out in all his finery, which served only to make his lamentably blocky figure and plain face the more noticeable.

Victoire’s greeting to him was not so cordial as the one she had given Murat. She curtsied and accepted his pro forma kiss on her hand. “I haven’t seen enough to come to any conclusions,” she answered.

“Oh, I doubt that, Madame Vernet; I suspect you draw conclusions in your sleep,” said Berthier. “You make more conclusions, and more accurately, than most of the men working for me.” He paused. “Your husband isn’t back, so it would not be proper for me to ask you to dance. So let us agree to stand and talk for a moment.”

“All right,” said Victoire, her curiosity piqued.

Berthier moved a little closer, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “I have spoken with General Moreau. About the file he took from Fouche’s Ministry.” He cleared his throat nervously. “He has said it was returned.”

“Oh?” said Victoire.

“He told me he no longer has it.” Berthier coughed diplomatically. “It would hardly be suitable for me to question the word of a fellow officer, but it troubles me that there is no record of the return of the file at the Ministry.”

“Yes, it is troubling,” Victoire agreed. “Fouche does not tolerate sloppiness.”

“No, he does not.” Berthier began to stroll toward a group of officers; he motioned Victoire to come with him. “Therefore I ask myself what can have occurred. I will take advantage of this meeting to find out what you make of it.”

Victoire took up the question at once, her light-blue eyes brightening with interest. “First, it may be that General Moreau is not telling you the truth. He may or he may not still have the file. If he does not have the file, it is possible that he returned it to Fouche, or that he gave it to someone else. Or it may be that he destroyed it. If he returned it to the Ministry, it may be that someone there purloined it, or that its return was not recorded, or recorded inaccurately. Or it is possible that Fouche is lying, and that he does indeed have the file and is seeking for some reason to cast doubts on General Moreau.”

Berthier was able to smile at Victoire’s quick summing up. “This is what I enjoy about you, Madame Vernet—this ability of yours to consider everything.”

“Hardly everything,” said Victoire. “But it is a stimulating exercise, and one I, too, enjoy.” She had the last of the champagne Murat had offered her. “Give me a little time, and I will be able to prepare a more complete assessment.”

“That is the very reason I am talking with you now. I do want your thoughts on this question, and as soon as you are able. But,” he went on, lowering his voice, “I do not want you to discuss this with anyone else.”

“By anyone else, do you mean Fouche, or do you include my husband as well?” Victoire asked, not quite friendly.

“I mean Fouche and any of the other officers. Your husband, naturally, is exempt from any restrictions I impose. It would not be fitting for me to place such restraints on a wife in regard to her husband.” His frizzy hair made a sort of halo around his large, square face as he stopped in front of a large sconce of candles. “I will send a messenger to you in a few days—let us say three days—and you will hand him your summation. Is that satisfactory?”

“Do you want me to sign this summation?” Victoire inquired.

“I will leave that to you. Whatever you believe is most wise will be acceptable to me.” He bowed to her without taking his hands from his pockets. “I am pleased to have seen you here, Madame Vernet, and I look forward to another conversation with you in the near future.”

“Thank you,” said Victoire automatically, noticing that Berthier was becoming ill-at-ease. “I wish you good evening, General Berthier.” She glanced around to see if there was any obvious reason for his discomfort but could discern nothing out of the way.

Berthier was already heading toward the door, looking around as if he feared he was being pursued.