MV02 Death Wears a Crown

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

“None of that,” warned Sackett-Hartley as he started toward the door, doing his best to ignore the stench of rotting vegetables that pervaded the narrow inn yard.

  The interior of the inn was dark and oppressive. Even the taproom had an air of decay about it, from the dark-stained barrels to the worn and ill-used tables to the hearth where two pigs turned on spits and an ancient crone basted them with a mixture that stank of dill.

  “Welcome to Le Chat Gris,” said a scrawny youth who appeared in the hallway. “Are you looking for lodgings?”

  D’Estissac answered for all of them. “Yes, we are. We were told that Jacques at Le Chat Gris would have room for us.”

  “Who told you that?” the youngster asked, his eyes widening with shock. “A friend who wears blue, who told us that there is room here,” said Sackett-Hartley, using the recognition code. “Tell the landlord.”

  The boy hurried away, shouting as he went that there were patrons arriving and that the landlord was needed.

  A door opened at the end of the hallway and that worthy presented himself. “I am Jacques Panne. And you are the cousins?”

  “The butchers from the north,” said La Clouette, completing the code. “Our friend in blue sent us here, because you have room.”

  Panne came toward them, a slab of a man with unruly shoulder-length gray hair and an air of perpetual disgust in his manner. “You have the money?”

  Sackett-Hartley pulled out the purse and handed it over. “Our friend in blue said that this is the price. One month for all of us. If we must remain longer, you will have the same again.”

  “If you have to stay longer, the price will be higher,” said Panne. “I have my skin to think about.” Nevertheless he took the purse and gave the eight strangers a rictus smile of fallacious welcome. “The boy will show you where you are to sleep. Supper is at sunset. Wine will cost you extra.”

  “I wonder if he is as generous with his high-ranking ally?” speculated Lieutenant Constable in a tone just loud enough to be heard.

  “Enough of that,” Sackett-Hartley ordered, and said to Panne, “Very well. I’ll give you money toward wine, and then we need not haggle about it.” Panne accepted the half-dozen silver coins without any visible reaction. “The house at the end of the next street is empty. It has been secured by the friend in blue, paid for a month. Your friends have the key, or so I was to tell you.”

  “You’re very good,” said Sackett-Hartley automatically. “Let us put our things away and then we will have some of that pork you are cooking.” He did not like the aroma coming from the hearth, but he was hungry enough to ignore the overpowering dill.

  With an insultingly low bow, Panne led them toward the rear of the building.

  I did want to confide my fears to Ministre Fouche, my dear husband, but I will confess to you that I cannot like it that the file was missing. It might be that there is no reason for my worry; General Moreau may well have an excellent reason for removing the file, and it could be that the precautions Fouche has instituted are too stringent. I do not know for a fact that there was much danger in Moreau’s removing the file. However, I am left with the sense that the information in the file would be better protected within the ministry than in the care of Moreau. If the file has not been returned by the end of the week, I will regard that as a very troubling indication.

  Victoire sat at her writing table and stared down at her letter to Lucien. Had she told him enough to alert him without creating unnecessary anxiety? She frowned and went on.

  I have also spoken with Berthier, and he is willing to consider my warnings. He has assured me that he will present me with any news that comes to hand that might resolve the questions I have put to him regarding the activities of English spies in France. I am satisfied with such an arrangement, for then neither his men nor I will waste time duplicating one another’s efforts.

  That was appropriately straight-forward and she felt better for having stated it so clearly.

  Odette appeared at the door of her withdrawing room. “Madame Vernet?”

  Victoire looked up. “What is it?”

  “There are callers,” said Odette with a gesture of discomfort. “They have asked to speak to you.”

  “Who are they?” asked Victoire, aware that Odette was not comfortable about the visitors.

  “General Bernadotte and his wife,” said Odette. “They say they have been remiss in not coming before now.” She gestured to show how helpless she felt. “I’ve put them in the parlor, but what am I to do?”

  Victoire rose and placed a blotter over her unfinished letter. “I suppose then that I must do the proper thing.” She had never felt the shabbiness of her house as intensely as she did at this moment. “What do we have in the house to offer them?”

  “There is wine, and I have some rolls we did not eat at breakfast. I could serve them with a comfit—there is some left.” She was close to blithering.

  “That would be very acceptable,” said Victoire, knowing it was not truly what either Bernadotte or his wife Desirée would expect. Still, it was polite enough that it would not insult the unexpected guests. “Serve some of that new honey, as well.”

  Odette waved her hands in protest. “But Madame Vernet, that was supposed to be for the dessert when your husband returns.”

  “I know.” Victoire sighed. “Still, it can’t be helped. We will buy more honey when he comes home.”

  “Very well,” said Odette, and went to inform the guests that Madame Vernet would be with them directly.

  General du Corps Jean Baptiste Jules Bernadotte was a handsome man, with regular features and a large, straight nose that constantly made him appear to be leaning into a wind. His wife, the former Desirée Clary, was a pretty, petulant woman with large eyes, flawless skin, and a languorous manner that could become ferociously energetic in an instant. Her hair was fashionably cropped, curling tendrils falling artlessly around her face. She was dressed at the height of courtly style in acres of tissue-fine rose-hued fabric that clung suggestively to her body whenever she moved. A wrap of India silk was draped over her shoulders. Her reticule was covered with splendid beadwork that matched the beadwork on the corsage of her dress.

  “What a pleasure to have you once again in Paris, Madame Vernet,” said Bernadotte as he bowed over her hand. He wore the white uniform of a Cuirassier, even to the heavy leather boots and pants designed to deflect a sword stroke or bayonet. Across his chest was the most colorful of the many decorations Napoleon had awarded him; the effect was both martial and impressive. “You must not think us remiss for waiting until now to call upon you.”

  “Not at all,” said Victoire, wondering what Bernadotte and Desirée were doing calling on her at all.

  Bernadotte kissed her hand and then waited for Victoire to touch cheeks with his wife. “We had intended to be here two days ago, shortly after you returned, but the press of my work, you know—”

  Desirée brushed her cheeks against Victoire’s and murmured a greeting. She was still very young, having been sixteen during her brief but notorious affair with Napoleon; she was almost twenty years younger than the handsome, round-faced Gascon, who had already been a hero of the Republic while she was still a child.

  “I’m sorry I was not waiting to greet you when you arrived,” said Victoire as she indicated to Desirée a place on her threadbare sofa. “I have not been much in the way of receiving afternoon callers.”

  “No, I gather not,” Bernadotte remarked. “You have given yourself other tasks. You are always active on your husband’s behalf; we are all aware of it. I have heard that you have already passed on dispatches to Fouche and Berthier.”

  “How devoted you are,” said Desirée.

  “I hope I am a dutiful wife,” said Victoire, more puzzled than ever. She took her place in her favorite chair and left Bernadotte to stand or sit as he wished.

  “Oh,
it is very well-known that you are. Inspector-General Vernet is the envy of half the officers I know.” He chuckled with an affectionate glance toward Desirée. “What man does not take pride in a wife who has his interests at heart?”

  Desirée’s expression did not alter as she said, “And for a man like Vernet, a wife who will aid him is very important.”

  Victoire looked at Desirée and wondered if her comment had been spiteful or merely ill-considered. “He and I both come from families who have made their way in the world. Fortunately there was money enough for training and education by the time we came along. Neither he nor I ever had to face the world without something in our pockets.”

  “Not so much as once,” said Desirée with a charming smile.

  So it is spite, thought Victoire, wishing she knew why General Bernadotte’s wife would have such a harsh opinion of her. “Very true,” she said as if she were unaware of the unkindness in the remark. “Which is why Vernet and I must apply ourselves.”

  “Such a shame when officers are driven to the limit in these ways, don’t you think?” Desirée inquired. “I have thought many times myself that I have been fortunate that I was not left without support or a husband. I am not one who could apply herself as I am certain you would, Madame Vernet.”

  This oblique reference to Desirée’s youthful affair with Napoleon took Victoire aback. “I should think that many women feel as you do,” she said, trying to discern what it was that these two wanted of her. “Each of us must be aware of at least one woman who has not been as fortunate as you and I, Madame Bernadotte.”

  Desirée leaned back, sulking, while her husband took up the conversation. “Yes, it is most regrettable that France has seen so many difficult years. But now that is coming to an end, and you must take pride in knowing that your husband has been one of those who has made this possible.”

  “I am very proud of Inspector-General Vernet,” said Victoire. “I make no secret of that.”

  “Very true,” said Bernadotte. “The vigor with which you have pursued his goals is most admirable.” He smiled. “I have heard that it is the contention of Inspector-General Vernet that there are English spies newly come to France. Is this so?”

  “It is possible,” said Victoire carefully.

  “And we were informed that there was an attempt to rob you while you were traveling from the coast to Paris. The story is that you took a shot at the man.” He regarded her with a mixture of courteous attention and patent disbelief.

  “I believe I wounded him,” said Victoire with a tranquility that she did not truly possess, still feeling a twinge as she remembered the incident. Victoire smiled gratefully when Desirée made light of the incident.

  “It’s what comes of staying at a common posting inn,” remarked Desirée.

  Victoire was determined to show no offense at this observation. “I would like to think so, but I cannot forget that no one is safe from the action of spies.”

  “Ah,” said Bernadotte. “Then this is the reason you have been so much at pains to persuade Fouche and Berthier to be on guard.”

  “It is one of them,” said Victoire and looked up as Odette came in bearing a tray with refreshments on it. “Pray let my housekeeper offer you something.”

  Desirée lifted her arched brows. “Isn’t it difficult to run a household with only one servant? No footman, no butler—how do you manage, Madame Vernet? I should be lost without my staff of servants.”

  “It requires effort, as you say,” Victoire answered stiffly, and motioned to Odette to carry the tray to Desirée first. “Had I known you would visit, I would have had cheese and fruit to offer you, as well.”

  Desirée took a small plate and broke one of the rolls in half, putting compote on one and honey on the other. “And a glass of wine; that will suffice. This house is not like some, where you are constantly offered unwanted luxuries and treats that serve no purpose but to make the host appear grand.” She paid little attention to Odette.

  “I will have the same as my wife,” said Bernadotte as Odette curtsied to him.

  “For what reason have you given me the pleasure of your company, General?” asked Victoire as courteously as she was able. Her curiosity was getting the better of her now and she did not want to take the better part of twenty minutes in senseless social frivolities.

  General du Corps Bernadotte was taken aback at her direct question, but he rallied himself and did his best to respond. “The stories of your enterprise and tenacity have only recently reached my ears, and what I have heard is most impressive. To shoot a robber with your own pistol, to protect your husband’s dispatches! And the tales Murat has told of you in Egypt and Italy. Astounding. It appears there is a dark secret in those events, for he is silent afterwards.” He paused for a moment to see if Victoire would clarify the mystery. When she didn’t respond, he continued. “I must tell you, Madame Vernet, that I am astonished at how intrepid you are.”

  “I am hardly that,” said Victoire, who knew that the word described her precisely. “I am prudent and sensible, which is often mistaken for intrepidity.”

  “And so modest,” said Desirée.

  For once Bernadotte appeared embarrassed at his wife’s comment. “Desirée, my dear, think of how this must seem to our hostess. It is not our purpose to make it appear we do not value her as we ought. Not everyone understands your playfulness.” He looked at Victoire with an attitude of eager inquiry. “Are you still convinced that there are English spies coming to Paris?”

  “I see no reason to change my mind,” said Victoire as Odette poured her a glass of wine.

  Bernadotte chuckled again. “But Madame Vernet, even suppose this were true, what would be their purpose in coming here? It is very dangerous, isn’t it? For what reason would they risk so much?”

  “I don’t know, not beyond a few assumptions,” Victoire confessed. “And that is what bothers me.”

  * * *

  After the couple had left, Victoire wondered at their motives. Bernadotte was an old companion of Napoleon from Italy and was rumored to be in line for further honors after the coronation. He was said to be ambitious and the situation in France was far from settled. One general had taken over command of the country: did Bernadotte hope to do the same? There had been that trouble in 1802 when several members of Bernadotte’s staff had plotted to take over the government. Nothing had been found that implicated Bernadotte but the conspirators had included his aide-de-camp. Since then he had refused all posts that took him away from the city. Had Bessieres sent him? Had Desirée, Napoleon’s spurned mistress, convinced him to come? Had General Bernadotte been politely offering his assistance or checking to see how much Vernet knew? The questions continued endlessly, unanswered.

  CLAUDE MONTRACHET stood in the entrance to the empty house that had been provided for them. “We can’t take the chance of staying here, not all twenty of us; in fact, none of us at all should live here,” he told the two men with him. “We’ll have to have a guard here all the time, but otherwise, we cannot afford to put all of our group under one roof. It’s too great a risk if anyone should suspect us.” He opened the door, wincing a little as he turned his wrist, where the impressions of teeth were fading at last.

  “It is adequate,” said one of his companions who had been with the private coach at the Vigne et Tonneau. “The other end backs onto the churchyard of Saint Rafael the Archangel. It is a very old building and there are only two priests there. They will not pay much attention if we cut through their—”

  “But we will not do that unless it is utterly necessary,” said Montrachet. “We have to be circumspect, and that means that we do as little as possible to draw attention to ourselves.” His other arm was in a sling and as he turned, he brushed that arm against the wall. He swore with vigor and variety.

  “The bullet wound has not yet healed?” asked the second companion, who had al
so been at the Vigne et Tonneau.

  “It is improving,” said Montrachet between clenched teeth. “If I ever get my hands on that woman, she will regret having that pistol.”

  “An amazing thing, the way she shot you,” said the first man unwisely.

  “You’re an idiot, Bouelac,” said Montrachet in his most conversational tone. “It was luck, only my ill-luck, that kept her from putting the ball through her own flesh.”

  Bouelac and the other man exchanged glances and wisely kept silent.

  Montrachet made his way down the hall, looking critically at the wet patches as he went past them. “It smells of mold,” he remarked as he looked into one small room.

  “The house is old and so near the river it is damp,” said Bouelac.

  “True enough,” said Montrachet. “But I will want someone— carpenter, I suppose—to inspect these rooms for rot, and do any truly necessary repairs. It won’t do to have the place collapse around us while we’re here, and I don’t want to burn it to the ground if the chimneys aren’t safe.”

  Bouelac sighed and said, “Have you talked to Sackett-Hartley about this?”

  “It isn’t his decision. This is my part of the operation, not his. I know Paris. He’s English,” said Montrachet. “He thinks he is avenging the Terror.”

  “And we are not?” asked the second companion.

  “No, Toutdroit, we are not.” Montrachet stopped and turned back to regard the two steadily. “We are here to establish ourselves in our rightful places, not to demand recompense. If we do that, we will fail, for that would admit that there is recompense for what was done to our families, and none can be possible. Therefore, we have no reason to seek it. If we act for our own advancement, and to restore our positions in the rightful order, we will succeed.” He indicated the house. “See that a carpenter inspects it and that it is put right.”