MV02 Death Wears a Crown (8 page)

The chambermaid returned, carrying a tray with a tall pot and a mug upon it. “Your chocolate, Madame.” She set this on the dressing table. “And I would probably have cognac if I had been through what you have suffered tonight.”

“Hardly suffered,” said Victoire brusquely, rising. She could smell the chocolate and it made her very hungry for the drink, as if it were meat instead of liquid.

“The landlord has asked to see you before you depart in the morning. He made me be sure I told you.” This was delivered with another short curtsy. “Good night, Madame. Do not fear, you are guarded now. I will rouse you in good time.” It was apparent from her tone of voice that she did not relish the prospect of being up again in two hours.

“Thank you,” said Victoire as she poured her chocolate.

The chambermaid nodded and was gone again, leaving Victoire to sip her chocolate in the vain hope that it would make her sleepy enough to override the apprehension that filled her.

* * *

Both corporals were waiting in the pre-dawn gloom as Victoire descended the stairs, her caped traveling coat closed to the throat and her dashing Hussar’s shako held on with a wide satin ribbon.

Corporal Feuille greeted her without effusiveness, his stubble-covered cheeks giving eloquent testimony to his nighttime activities. “The musician is missing.”

“The musician?” Victoire inquired. She had a faint headache from sleeplessness and had to resist the urge to demand more information at once.

“Yes,” said Corporal Cruche. “He left his horn, but he’s gone. He has to be the one who broke into your room last night.” He made a disapproving face. “Musicians! They never have any money.”

Victoire scowled. “He can’t be much of a musician if he left his horn behind. It makes no sense for him to give up his livelihood.”

“Well, as to that,” said Corporal Feuille, “I have a theory. I think he was planning to return to his own room with whatever he had taken from you, never thinking that you would be armed.”

This interested Victoire. “Why do you say that?”

Corporal Feuille could not resist preening. “It makes sense, Madame Vernet. Here is a man of little wealth, making his way to Paris where employment awaits him. He played last night as a way to reduce the cost of his room. And you are a woman traveling alone, for although we are guarding you, at night you must keep to your room yourself.” He faltered. “We meant to have a servant sleep outside your door, but ... but we failed to arrange it. We were ... distracted.” He stared apologetically at his boots, as if uncertain how to account for his boasting and drink of the evening before.

“I am aware of that,” said Victoire. “Is that why you think he came into my room? Because I am a woman alone?”

“And because you were dining alone. He might have thought you carried a goodly cache of gold with you.” Corporal Cruche’s large-featured face revealed that he, too, suspected that Madame Vernet had money at her disposal.

“But why would I travel by diligence if I had funds? Why not try the rooms of the travelers in the coach? They are clearly most prosperous.” Victoire was now at the foot of the stairs, glancing around for the landlord.

“But they are armed,” said Corporal Feuille. “He would have been foolish to attempt to steal from them. But you, alone, must have appeared to be the easiest source of funds for him.”

“I see,” said Victoire, who had arrived at slightly different conclusions.

“And the landlord is waiting for you in the taproom. We will come with you if you think it necessary,” said Corporal Cruche, who plainly did not want to be bothered.

“That will not be necessary,” Victoire told him. “I would rather that you supervise the loading of my luggage.”

Both corporals gave her sketchy salutes.

As Victoire entered the taproom, she noticed a mongrel dog lying near the door, the lantern-light falling on his brindled coat; she looked at the animal with curiosity. As she started toward the hearth where the landlord was setting logs on the embers of the night fires, she glanced again at the dog. “You said that he is not used for tracking?”

“For ratting,” said the landlord, continuing with his work, his face becoming more visible as the first little tongues of flame lapped the wood. “But by the looks of his muzzle he took a nip at something or someone last night. The poor fellow’s been whining and he’s got a sore shoulder, that’s for certain.” Satisfied with the first flames crackling into the new logs, the landlord straightened up and came toward her. “I hope you will accept my apologies, Madame Vernet, for the inconveniences you have suffered here.”

“Certainly. I thought I indicated that last night.” She did her best to give him a friendly smile, but her mouth felt tight and she knew she would not be able to put the man at ease.

“Last night was a difficult time, and often-times, when the dangers are over and the alarums ended, there are second thoughts.” He kicked at the few charcoaled scraps of the previous evening that had slipped onto the flags in front of the fireplace. “I did not want you to suppose that—”

“Under the circumstances I think you managed as well as anyone could expect,” said Victoire stiffly. “And I will so inform my husband when I tell him of what transpired here.” She reached into her reticule for the coins she had put there. “This is the cost of the room.”

The landlord waved the coins away. “No, Madame Vernet, I would rather you did not pay me.”

“You did not know this would happen, and therefore you should not have to answer for it,” she said reasonably.

“True, but you are a guest in my inn, and you should not be subjected to such abuse. I would prefer you allow me to make this gesture. I do not want it said that I prey on the misfortunes of my guests. I should have arranged for you to be guarded better, but to say truly, I supposed that the corporals were only trying to increase their importance by claiming you carried money and dispatches.”

Victoire suspected that the man had spent the last hour preparing to say that to her, and so she regarded him steadily. “There is no reason to fear me, or to assume that my husband would hold you responsible for what occurred. The corporals have more to fear from him than you do.”

“But still,” said the landlord. “Please do me the courtesy of accepting my hospitality without charge.”

She was aware he was serious, but she could not entirely rid
herself of the obligations she felt. “Then take this”—she held out a silver coin—“for the chocolate. Will you do that, at least?”

He chuckled and accepted the coin. “Very well.” He looked over at the mongrel as it gave a low whine as it turned in its sleep. “Poor old Bouchonie. He’s more than ten years old. It’s a shame he had to be hurt.”

Victoire agreed, adding, “Still, if he bit the man, he had his revenge.”

The landlord hitched up his shoulders. “A heavy blow to an old dog, who’s to say what it might do to him?”

At that Victoire became inquisitive. “Do you truly think that he bit the man?” What had he said his name was? Mon ... Montra ... something. She shook her head and listened to the landlord.

“I think he must have. No one complained of his biting when they visited the necessary houses; the ostlers have not been bitten. It could be that he caught a rabbit, but why would he be hurt?” He made a gesture of futility. “The dog cannot talk, Madame, so I may only speculate. And my speculation leads me to think that he bit the thief as he fled.”

“You may be correct,” said Victoire, wondering how she would ever be able to locate a musician without his instrument and sporting a bullet-wound and a dog-bite.

“And I may not,” the landlord concurred. He took her extended hand and bowed over it. “I hope that you will not hold this misfortune against my inn, Madame Vernet.”

“The inn did not try to rob me,” she pointed out. “Rest assured that your reputation will not suffer at my hands, or my husband’s.” This was clearly what the landlord wanted to be certain of, she realized, and she went on, “Neither of us have any reason to think poorly of you or to question your role in the ... incident.”

“You are very gracious, Madame Vernet,” said the landlord, bowing to her once more, relief in every line of his body.

“Hardly that,” she corrected him. “But I am about to be late, and that would be unfortunate.” She had heard footsteps in the hallway and the sound of the ostlers harnessing the team to the diligence.

The landlord escorted her to the door of his inn with a flourish. “I have enough to apologize for,” he said with an attempt at gallantry. “So I will not seek to detain you further.”

The driver was squinting up at the sky as the eastern horizon brightened to silver and rose. “There’ll be wind today,” he announced to the passengers gathered in the inn yard. “Best keep your coats about you.”

With this unwelcome thought, Victoire permitted the landlord to hand her up into the diligence, and noticed that the two corporals, her self-appointed escorts, were watching with ill-concealed annoyance. Affronted as they were, Victoire hoped that it would teach them to be more prudent in what they said to other travelers. Concealing a shudder at the lingering shock of the night, she took her place in the carriage. They would pass the night in Beauvais, she thought, following the map in her mind. And then one more night—at Argenteuil or Colombes, perhaps—before they came at last to Paris.

Paris
, Victoire thought.
Home
.

THE VERNETS
lived beyond the fashionable quarter of Paris on a cul-de-sac that backed onto a tannery that now served as livery-and-smithy. Their house was narrow and tall, built two hundred years before, like the rest of them in this area, the rooms small and drafty. The ceiling in the kitchen—a woefully old-fashioned chamber—was patched with damp that no amount of reslating the roof could entirely banish. The staircases leaned and creaked treacherously whenever anyone climbed them.

Odette Pilier, the widow who served as the Vernets’ housekeeper, met her employer at the door, her black dress covered by a blue apron and her cap askew over chestnut curls. “Good Lord and His saints, thank Heaven you’re back again,” she cried as she flung open the door for her.

The porter bearing her luggage stood in the street, his small pushcart laden with Victoire’s chests. “I’ll set these on the step,” he said, and went about his task quickly, for he knew he could expect little in the way of favors from someone living in such a house.

Victoire handed him his money and a small doucement, all the while listening to Odette catalogue the various domestic catastrophes that had occurred in her absence. She waved her housekeeper into silence. “Let me sort this out first, and then we will tend to your troubles, Odette.”

The afternoon was overcast and stuffy, and the sour scent of drains and old mortar combined to make the street seem more dreary than it was. The work of the blacksmith at his forge sounded like ancient, discordant bells.

“Ah, Madame Vernet, I am so relieved to have you home,” Odette sighed. She was only three years older than Victoire, but seemed more, and not just for her widow’s black: as a young woman left with no money when her sergeant husband had been killed in battle, she had been forced to come to terms with the world in a way that made her timorous and reserved beyond her years.

“Will you lend me a hand?” Victoire asked as she went to retrieve her luggage. “Between the two of us I’m certain we can manage.”

Odette flung up her hands. “You could have had the porter tend to it.”

“And he would have charged me for every stair he climbed, and every time he climbed them,” said Victoire. “This trip has already been too expensive.” She tugged at one of the leather handles on the case. “Help me, will you?”

“If it is necessary,” said Odette, capitulating. She came down the stairs and took the other end of the case.

In
ten minutes the two women had tugged and dragged Victoire’s luggage into the house, and now the cases were standing in the door to the living room.

“We might as well unpack them here. Half my clothes need washing, and the rest will have to be aired.” Victoire looked around the shabby room and did her best not to show the disappointment the room often inspired in her. “The cases will need to be stored again, but it will be easier when they are empty.”

“You look very tired,” said Odette, scrutinizing her employer. “You are not having more ... trouble, are you?”

“No,” said Victoire. “In fact, I think I am much recovered from my miscarriage. But you are correct. I am tired. And I am ill-at-ease.” She sank down into her favorite chair and proceeded to tell Odette about her night at the Vigne et Tonneau.

Odette blessed herself and exclaimed in dismay when Victoire described how she had shot the thief.

“At least,” she added conscientiously, “I think I did. If nothing else, I scared him off.” She bit her lower lip. “But I haven’t been able to sleep since that night.”

“You must have a care, Madame,” said Odette. “It is very bad to keep awake in that fashion. You must let me prepare a tisane for you, something that will soothe you.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Victoire at once, “but first I need a decent meal, something with taste to it.” She pulled off her gloves and stuffed them into her reticule. “And tomorrow I will need to be out in the world, for I have errands to perform for my husband.”

Odette looked dismayed. “But madame, you’ve just been through a dangerous encounter. Surely you need to keep to your bed for a day, to recover yourself.” She watched Victoire narrowly. “You admit you are tired, and often this leads to illness.”

“Inactivity will do me more harm than good,” said Victoire decisively. “I appreciate your concern, Odette, but trust me to know my own limits.” She rose and unfastened her caped traveling coat. “I’ll be able to recuperate from my journey after I’ve discharged my husband’s tasks.” She handed her coat to Odette. “You had better sponge it with vinegar. After all that time in a diligence, who knows what clings to it. And put water to heating. I know I need a bath.” She looked down at her lap. “I’ve had food and drink spilled here for the last four days, and I know it is all sticking to me still.”

“Of course, Madame Vernet,” said Odette. “A hot bath will do you good, and you’ll feel more yourself again.”

“I trust I will,” said Victoire.

Odette folded the coat over her arm. “I’ll attend to it, Madame. But there are a few matters that you must hear of.” She pointed to a place near the window. “There is more damp. The carpenter will have to repair it, or there is danger that the window will not hold.”

Victoire looked at the place Odette indicated. “You’re right,” she said with a gesture of resignation. “And something still must be done about the bannister as well.”

“Unfortunately,” Odette agreed.

“I see,” said Victoire, thinking of Vernet’s dress uniform and her few keepsakes and antiques. There was a silver-and-garnet brooch that she would not mind parting with, along with the rest; she never wore it, for neither silver nor garnets became her, so there would be little sacrifice in selling it as well as the others. “It must be tended to,” she allowed.

“Madame?” said Odette.

“I will make arrangements, do not fear,” said Victoire, and turned her mind away from such distressing thoughts. “What’s been going on in Paris since I went away?”

This was a topic much to Odette’s interest. “The whole world talks of Josephine,” she declared. “And she provides much to talk about. All the Bonapartes follow her lead, and her lead is extravagant and scandalous. Young Lucien’s marriage is only the most recent occasion for gossip and rumor.”

“Um,” said Victoire, aware that Napoleon’s younger brother had a penchant for the outrageous, and his marriage to the impecunious but beautiful Madame Jouberthon was just the latest action to outrage his sisters.

“They say that her first husband’s death has not been confirmed,” said Odette, delighted to be shocked by this additional scandal.

“He fled when he went bankrupt, or so I understand. He was supposed to have gone to one of the Caribbean Islands,” said Victoire as if this were an everyday occurrence. “Documents do not come quickly from such places.”

“No, indeed not,” said Odette, and returned to her original subject. “And there is still Josephine. Had Lucien married that ugly Italian woman Napoleon had chosen for him, there would still be more than enough to talk about.”

“Truly,” said Victoire, though her sarcasm didn’t diminish Odette’s pleasure in revealing more about the Consul’s wife.

“You should see how she has set herself up in the world! The clothes she wears, and the jewels!” Odette’s expression of disapproval was marred by the sparkle in her brown eyes. “Imagine, being so indulged,” she said as she started toward the rear of the house, where the kitchen was.

Victoire followed along behind. “I know she has a taste for excesses.”

“So she has, so she has,” said Odette eagerly, opening the door to the kitchen and the servants’ quarters: there was space for three, but since the Vernets could afford only one, she was given use of all three rooms as her own, and she had proceeded to turn these little chambers into a neat apartment for herself. “And it appears to be growing with every passing hour.”

“That must cause Napoleon some apprehension,” said Victoire, knowing it would be her own response to such behavior. “As First Consul, he must be regarded as the example for all Frenchmen.”

“As to that, who is to say? He is entitled to have these things, and Josephine is in a position to be his ... flagship.” She chuckled at her own allusion as she put Victoire’s coat down over the back of one of the kitchen chairs before reaching for one of four enormous copper kettles, which she took to the pump in the corner of the room. As she filled the kettle with water, she went on. “They say she has spent as much on her jewels as the navy has spent on ships, but I am certain that is only the malicious report of those who are bent on making the worst of everything they can. The First Consul’s mother hates her, or that is the talk.” Odette was deep-bosomed and strong, but her words slowed as she continued to ply the pump-handle. “They are all becoming very grand now, the group around Napoleon. They are all of them like the old royal court.”

“Odette,” said Victoire in faint disapproval, for she could not help but agree with her housekeeper’s assessment.

“Well, they are,” Odette persisted. “And it is enough to make honest men weep to see how like dandies and fops they have become. And these endless family squabbles!” She struggled to lift the filled kettle onto the ancient iron stove, then took down the second kettle and began the process again. “I’ve seen her once or twice—Josephine, I mean—and she was splendid to behold. A poor man could live half a lifetime on her necklace alone.”

“And you don’t approve?” said Victoire, and went on without waiting for an answer. “I don’t know that I do, either. She is such a frivolous woman, and at the same time her will is very strong. If she ever fixed her attention to some purpose other than amusement, she might be very beneficial to all of France. Or very dangerous.”

“She is not the only such woman,” said Odette, panting now as she worked.

“No,” Victoire said quietly. “Lamentably she is not.”

* * *

It was shortly after noon the following day when Victoire made the first of her calls at the Ministry of Public Safety, the domain of Fouche. It was in a small building on a street several minutes’ walk from the Tuileries. The building itself was one of many dark brick structures with little to set it apart from the counting houses on either side. On a previous visit, Victoire had noticed that residing on a corner and having a wide alley behind, there were almost a dozen doorways on the three accessible sides. At night most would be shadowed or unlit, providing excellent cover for the numerous spies that returned to report to Fouche from nations all over Europe.

Entering the building, there was nothing to show that this was the center of Fouche’s web. There was a well-dressed young man behind a desk who greeted Victoire courteously. Not recognizing her, he began a speech she had heard before. From the corner of her eye Victoire noticed three large men whose desks gave them a clear field of fire to all entrances. Each man had opened a drawer which no doubt held pistols.

“I am the wife of Inspector-General Vernet,” Victoire announced in her most officious voice. “I have a dispatch from my husband to deliver to Citizen Fouche personally. We have met before and he will recognize me.”

The well-dressed young man lost his false smile, but rose and gestured for her to follow. Behind her, Victoire could hear the sound of drawers closing.

She had dressed for the occasion in her second-best day dress, a handsome, high-waisted afternoon dress in sea-green taffeta with a small, standing ruff of point-lace. She curtsied to Fouche but offered him little more than a perfunctory smile, for she knew that Fouche often regarded courtesy as suspect. “I am sorry to have to interrupt your day, Monsieur le Ministre. If I did not think it important, I—”

“Madame Vernet, I’m always willing to see you when you request it. You are not capricious or one who is seeking favor and advancement.” He gestured to the chair on the other side of his writing table.

“There you are not entirely correct,” said Victoire in her usual direct manner. She had always found Fouche personally pleasant, but never underestimated the calculated way in which he had risen over all his rivals. “I am a married woman and therefore I’m always interested in the welfare of my husband.”

“And the welfare of France,” said Fouche without the cynicism that would usually accompany such an observation.

“Yes,” said Victoire. “That as well.” She got on at once to the reason for her visit. “I know you have received a dispatch from my husband regarding reports of English landing on the coast near Dunkerque. We have reason to suppose that there have indeed been English spies put ashore. There is a possibility that they are bound for Paris rather than Antwerp.” She reached into her reticule and withdrew one of the dispatches she had carried. “I have brought this to you from my husband. He describes what he has undertaken, and the concerns we both share for Napoleon’s safety.”

“Napoleon’s safety?” said Fouche, surprised at the turn she had taken.

“Yes. What other reason would the English have in coming to Paris, if not to harm the First Consul? When I arrived I feared they planned an uprising here such as just ended in the Vendée. But the city is too quiet, such things do not spring full grown, as did Minerva. They may be planning to murder First Consul Napoleon, or kidnap him or one of his family. They could want to suborn others of his family.” Her expression was somber and she regarded Fouche levelly. “I would like to see the file you have on English spies known to be in France, and the nature of their organizations.”