MV02 Death Wears a Crown

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  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.”

  Such a request from most officers’ wives would have been met with a firm but polite dismissal from Fouche, but coming as it did from Victoire Vernet, he nodded in agreement, fussing with the folds of his neck cloth; calm in the most difficult of diplomatic circumstances, he was often uncomfortable in social conversations. “Of course. I will have it brought at once. You understand that you will have to examine it here? Nor can you m
ake any copies.”

  “Certainly,” said Victoire at once. “You do not want such sensitive information to leave the building.” Her manner was brisk without being unfriendly. “If I notice anything that might lead to discovering this latest English mission, I will inform you at once.”

  “Excellent,” said Fouche, rising in order to summon one of his assistants. “I would like you to bring the file on English spies operating in France,” he said, adding, “I would like to have it at once. We will wait for you to bring it.”

  “At once,” said the angular young man who had answered his summons. “Of course.”

  Fouche returned to his chair, plucking at the ruffles of his cuffs. “May I offer you a glass of wine while we wait for the file to be brought?”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Victoire, who knew that Fouche served very good wine. “I’d like that.”

  “Very well,” said Fouche, and opened a cabinet near the foot of his desk. “I think that you will find this satisfactory, for you are not one of those women forever drinking tisanes and champagne. I enjoy it myself, but it is not to everyone’s taste.”

  The wine was a Côtes Sauvages, very dark and rich, with a flavor so dense that it seemed chewable. Fouche smiled with understandable pride as Victoire took a second sip.

  “This is wonderful,” she said sincerely, thinking how much she wished she could afford to offer such a vintage to her visitors. Now that she was back in Paris, she was reminded how important such matters were among the new aristocracy of the Republic.

  “Yes, it is. And you have the knowledge to value it,” he complimented her, putting his glass down. “I wonder if you would tell whether or not you share your husband’s worry in regard to these English.”

  “Yes, I do,” she said, putting her glass aside as well. “If anything, I am more troubled than he, because try as I will, I can think of no reason for the spies to leave the coast if they do not intend to act either directly against Napoleon himself or indirectly, by causing disruption to the negotiations in Antwerp.”

  Fouche listened attentively. “Perhaps they are waiting to make some more mischief against the fleet. Already we have enough ships to threaten the Channel. I do understand that is one of your husband’s assumptions.”

  “It was, but is less so now: if that were the case there would be rumors of it, and there are none. Those fishermen along the coast are a greater source of gossip than the most successful hairdresser here in Paris,” she said bluntly. “Let the English appear, and they would know of it even if the army did not. And those men guarding the fleet know the ships and fishermen of their area. They would know if there were foreign sailors about.” She folded her hands in her lap, her demeanor as modest as she could make it. “My husband has gone to Antwerp, as you are aware, and I am here to serve as his lieutenant, so that if Paris is the destination of the spies, you will not have to wait for word from him to begin a search for them. And we are in agreement that there are spies, and that they must be bound for one destination or the other.”

  “Your husband is a very sensible fellow,” said Fouche.

  “He is, isn’t he?” Victoire agreed candidly.

  “And he is thrice-blessed in you,” added Fouche, now fussing with the top button of his swallow-tail coat. “If I were not certain of that, you would not be permitted to examine the file you have requested.” He took another sip of wine. “It is a pity that so many of our officers have playthings for wives, or ambitious cats, ready to claw their way to prominence.”

  Victoire was surprised at the vehemence of his words. “Ministre Fouche, you cannot think that all women are—”

  He waved her protest aside. “No, I do not mean that, and you are well-aware of it. I merely observe that most wives are valued for qualities other than the ones you possess, good sense and clear-headedness. And steadiness of temperament.” He added this last wryly, for he was known to like the company of volatile women. “Truly, there are officers whose wives are saints, and others who have capable managers and allies in their wives, just as there are some with sluts and slatterns and brood mares. But Vernet has found more than any of the usual admirable qualities of women in you.” He finished the last of the wine in his glass. “And you are fortunate that he does not mind your intelligence. There is many another who would.”

  “I am thankful for his kindness to me,” said Victoire, uncertain what other answer to give.

  Fouche shrugged. “If he were not kind, he would be truly a fool. I, for one, Madame Vernet, would not like to have you for an enemy.”

  Her laughter was disbelieving. “I am no one’s enemy, Ministre Fouche.”

  “You think not?” Fouche said, and before Victoire could answer, looked up as the door opened. “Well, let us see this file.”

  The angular young man stood hesitantly in the door. “The file is ... is with General Moreau. There is a memorandum left, signed by him.” Moreau was a most honored hero who had commanded the Armée du Rhin to victory at Hochstadt not long ago.

  “He has taken it with him?” Fouche asked, as if he had not understood. “Did you check the aide’s credentials? Confirm his name with Moreau’s staff?”

  “Apparently they did not. There is no mention of any checks. He took the file. That is all the memorandum says.” The assistant looked ashamed. “It was not supposed to be removed, but the aide to General Moreau claimed the general had urgent need of the information.”

  Fouche’s eyes narrowed. “The general said nothing to me.”

  “The aide said you were not here. That is what he told the clerks, in any case. I wasn’t there or this would not have happened.” Now the assistant seemed ready to flee. “Should I call upon the general? To request its return?”

  “Not on the instant,” said Fouche, glancing at Victoire and then back at his assistant. “But perhaps tomorrow, if he has not yet returned it. I will send a note ’round to him, asking that he bring it back.”

  Fouche said nothing, letting the young assistant blather on. He caught Victoire’s eye and shared the hint of a smile.

  “He was told the file was not supposed to leave the building,” lamented the assistant as if he had been personally responsible for the loss of the information.

  “No doubt,” said Fouche. “The general is aware of how these things are done.” He scowled, then went on smoothly. “The press of events must have demanded he make an exception.”

  The assistant was pathetically glad to have this excuse to cling to. “That must surely have been the case,” he said, his face turning pale with relief.

  Fouche waved him away with murmured thanks, then looked back at Victoire, who was listening with close attention. “I know I may rely on your discretion, Madame Vernet,” he said pointedly.

  “Most certainly,” said Victoire at once. “And yet, I must observe that this development is most worrisome to me.”

  “As it is to me,” Fouche admitted, his lips pursing with disapproval and anxiety. “I am surprised that Moreau would behave in this manner. If the man was Moreau’s aide, acting at his behest, then it is most unlike him. He is generally a reliable man, and this is not what I have come to expect of him. I will forward what you request once he returns the file.” He offered her a second glass of wine, but the gesture was merely a courtesy, and Victoire knew well enough not to accept it.

  “You are very gracious, Ministre Fouche, but I have other errands to run for my husband, and they will not wait.” She rose and offered her hand to Fouche. “I am grateful for your time and attention. I hope you will review the dispatch I have brought you and will let me know at your earliest convenience any message you would like me to send to my husband.”

  “It will be my duty and pleasure,” said Fouche, kissing her hand. As he rose from his bow, he fussed with his neck cloth, unsatisfied that it was as fashionably tied as he wanted it to be.

  �
�How very kind,” said Victoire as she left his office.

  * * *

  Colonel Sir Magnus Sackett-Hartley stood in front of Le Chat Gris and tried not to turn up his nose too much. The tavern was four hundred years old and looked every hour of it: small, dark windows sagged over the narrow street where apprentice weavers trudged home from long hours at the looms.

  “The owner knows we’re coming,” said Cholet, coming up beside him.

  “The rest are supposed to be at La Plume et Bougie, near the Université. They should have arrived four days ago, if all has gone according to plan.” Sackett-Hartley was used to speaking French now, and no longer feared detection when strangers passed him in the street.

  “In the morning, my friend,” said Cholet, and signalled to the others. “We have arrived.”

  Brezolles was the first to object. “But you c-can’t mean—This is a-an appalling place,” he declared. “Surely we can find b-better lodging than this.”

  “Possibly,” said Sackett-Hartley, “but none safer. The landlord here is in the debt of our ally.”

  The other six looked dismayed. “What man of high rank would have anything to do with a place like this?” asked La Clouette for all of them.

  “That’s a foolish question,” said Sackett-Hartley. “Men of high rank always keep a bolt-hole or two, if they are wise. My uncle led many to safety from such places as these.” He gestured to them to follow him. “We need to hide, and what better place than this?”

  Brezolles turned his eyes upward. “We would h-have to be desperate.”

  “We are desperate,” said Les Aix.

  Sackett-Hartley interrupted this useless conversation. “Remember, we are cousins come here to look for work. We are skilled butchers, all of us.”

  “So we are,” said d’Estissac with a nasty smile.