Vernet regarded her with curiosity. “She has been very forthcoming with you of late, hasn’t she?”
“Desirée? She has. I’ve not discouraged her,” said Victoire. “There’s too much to be learned from her, and I am concerned for Bernadotte. Say what you will about his political ambitions, Jean Baptiste Jules has always been kindly disposed to me and to his fellow-officers and their families. There are those who say he is ungrateful and ought not to have been made Governor of Hanover, but—” She stopped herself. “I’m not so sanguine about his wife.”
“And you are still investigating him? Or her?” Vernet suggested.
“Until the question regarding Moreau is answered, yes,” she said with a trace of defiance. “Fouche may think the matter closed, but I don’t agree.”
Vernet shrugged. “If you’re continuing your inquiries, then who am I to stop you? But as your husband, I trust you will observe due circumspection?”
“I’m not going to embarrass you, Vernet,” she reassured at her most heartening, her cheeks suddenly rosy.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” He reached out and tweaked one of the fashionable curling tendrils of pale hair framing her face. “You couldn’t embarrass me if you tried.”
“Let’s not put that to the test,” Victoire agreed, feeling oddly light-headed.
The carriage was at last nearing the covered entrance; six vehicles were ahead of them, but the coachman tapped on the panel to signal his passengers.
Vernet answered the tap with one of his own and gave Victoire an inquisitive glance. “Well? Are you ready? We’re almost there.”
“More than ready,” said Victoire, gathering her cloak with her left hand and securing her reticule and fan with her right. “All they need do is let down the steps.” She offered him a tight, anticipatory smile, then said, “I can’t help thinking I ought to have brought my pistol instead of my fan.” Her chuckle was uncertain. “I suppose my recent escape still troubles me from time to time.”
“What would you want a pistol for at a reception?” asked Vernet.
“I don’t know—perhaps for those English spies everyone tells me aren’t out there. Perhaps because I fear that another attempt will be made to kill the First Consul.” She felt the coach move into position. “And perhaps you are all correct and I’m only jumping at shadows.” She did her best to show him a reassuring smile. “It’s nothing important, I’m certain; otherwise I would have the pistol.”
Vernet shook his head in fond disbelief. “What other man has a wife like you?” He reached toward the coach door as it was drawn to a stop and the footman scrambled down from the roof to assist them out.
The Bernadottes’ hotel was resplendent, Desirée having her new draperies and valences as well as five enormous chandeliers cleaned and set with new beeswax candles. The servants were rigged out in dull red livery but for the master-butler, who wore a uniform so grand he might be mistaken for one of the admirals or generals attending the reception.
The Swedish delegation was primarily composed of soldiers in their resplendent white-and-blue uniforms. All were covered in medals and decorations, which Victoire found amusing, as Sweden had not had a war since Gustavus Adolphus had died. Just as Desirée had planned, they were dramatically impressive against the dark color of the new draperies. Although Sweden was no longer the premier military power she had been in the Hundred Years War, she remained vital to both France and her enemies. To France she represented a force that could balance the power of the Czar. England had nearly denuded all of her Irish possessions of their once extensive forests, so Sweden was the only European source left for the timber needed to maintain the Royal Navy: Swedish forests provided, at great profit to their crown, virtually all of the timber needed for the masts of all of Europe’s navies. Neither France nor England could afford to affront, much less alienate, the Swedes.
Vernet and Victoire surrendered their wraps and their invitation to Bernadotte’s servants, Victoire remarking in an undervoice, “I don’t know why they always take these away from you just when you want them most. This hallway is drafty as a hayloft.”
“You will be warm shortly; these receptions and balls are always overheated.” He took her hand and kissed it. “If you remain chilled, I will see you are seated near the fire.”
“Thank you, but I am not yet in my dotage,” murmured Victoire, but with a trace of wistfulness. She slipped her hand through her husband’s arm and took up her place in the reception line, which wound down a long hall to a lavish antechamber where the hosts and the Swedes received the guests.
As a general, Bernadotte had the right to create his own uniform. Tonight he had abandoned the plain infantry uniform he normally wore and sported one made in the same colors and materials as the Swedes, but in reverse, something that obviously pleased the guests of honor. The general’s jacket was dark blue and emblazoned with all the honors he had gained, which virtually filled the front of the jacket. The well-tailored unmentionables were the brightest white with a gold stripe down the sides that matched the cuffs and revers of the jacket. Victoire suspected Desirée had had a hand in the uniform’s design.
Desirée was equally magnificent: she wore a velvet gown of a red so pure and dark that it seemed black in shadow. On her bosom lay a coronet-shaped lavaliere of rubies-and-garnets set in white gold. Her earrings were ruby baubles, and her tiara had a dozen diamonds as well as eighteen rubies. As Victoire curtsied to her, Desirée offered her cheek. “I am so pleased you are here, Madame Vernet. In this gathering, I am delighted to see a friend’s face.” She indicated her elderly Aunt Hortense, who served as senior representative of her family. “I have spoken to her of you. You may have to talk loudly, for she does not hear well.”
“You’re very gracious, Madame Bernadotte,” said Victoire in proper form.
“When this reception line is over, you must come with me and drink a glass of champagne. After so many compliments and praises, I fear I’ll require your honesty. A woman can become too besotted on flattery, can’t she?” Her full lips curved, but the smile never reached her eyes.
“It would be an honor,” said Victoire, and continued down the reception line, concealing her growing sense of foreboding. She curtsied to Aunt Hortense and yelled a few polite phrases to her, and then joined her husband just inside the ballroom.
“There is a quadrille forming,” remarked Vernet, making it a suggestion.
“Not quite yet, I think,” said Victoire, her eyes scanning the room. “I want to have some notion of who is here.”
“Because you anticipate trouble?” Vernet suggested with mild disbelief.
“It may come to that,” she said, her gaze fixed on Talleyrand, who had just arrived with Fouche.
“But my love,” said Vernet, indicating the gorgeous surroundings, “consider this occasion. What spy could come here?”
Victoire was about to give a dismissing answer when she recognized one of the new arrivals. She flipped her fan in the direction of the high interior window that gave onto the hallway and the reception line, where the guests waited to be presented to the Swedish delegation. “That one. Look.”
Resplendent in full dress uniform, General Jean-Charles Pichegru stood near the end of the line, unmindful of the stares he was attracting.
Vernet bit back an oath as he recognized the interloper.
“Unless I miss my guess,” said Victoire evenly, “those soldiers around General Pichegru are his, not Bernadotte’s.” She deliberately turned so that she was not staring at Pichegru. She had noticed the bulges inside the jackets of several of the men, which indicated they were carrying pistols. “If he intends to provoke an incident, he has certainly chosen the occasion.” She nodded toward Bernadotte. “He must be informed.”
“Surely he knows,” said Vernet, still watching the general. “How can he not?”
“No, he d
oesn’t know; Pichegru is too far down the hall, beyond Bernadotte’s sight. The windows are not visible from the antechamber.” She stared down at her shoes. “It’s not correct, but you had better inform him so that he can protect the Swedes.”
“The Swedes?” Vernet asked. “What of Napoleon?”
On the dance floor a number of sets had formed for the quadrille, and now the seven-piece consort set to playing for them.
“Anything causing trouble for the Swedish delegation will be held against Napoleon,” said Victoire. “And Napoleon is on the alert; the Swedes are not.” She lowered her head. “Take care not to say anything to Desirée.”
Vernet stared at her. “What do you mean?”
Victoire spoke hurriedly. “I mean only that Pichegru has come here prepared and he must have carried an invitation to have reached his place in line. If Bernadotte did not give him the invitation, I must ask myself who did.” She moved so that she could watch the line more closely. “As Inspector-General, you have a duty to your host, Vernet,” she reminded him in the same steady tone. “I’ll be sure the doors to the terrace are open.” Without waiting for his response, she made her way along the foot of the ballroom toward the four sets of tall French doors on the far side of the room, pausing at each one to open it as Vernet slipped behind the reception line to whisper something to his host.
More couples had formed sets and were joining the dancing. Those guests not dancing gathered into comfortable groups for news and gossip, a few of them taking pains to show off their finery.
Victoire could see Bernadotte stiffen from across the room; as she watched she saw the general turn to the Swedish Ambassador and motion him to move aside. The reception line halted as the Ambassador took a step back and signalled to the rest of his delegation. Beside her husband, Desirée stood in confusion, pouting at this neglect.
At a signal from Bernadotte, a number of servants abandoned their serving work and came to surround the Swedish party and the others in the receiving line. Just behind them were half a dozen Guards in full uniform. Bernadotte whispered something to his wife, then spoke to the Swedes once more.
The guests gathered in the ballroom began to mill as they noticed the unfamiliar activities taking place around the reception’s host. The consort faltered in their melody and the dancing straggled to a halt; conversation, until then little more than a low, steady buzz, now became louder and shriller.
“Who would have thought he had the brass?” marveled Talleyrand at his most insinuating as he appeared beside Victoire.
Victoire made herself show no reaction to this intrusion. She turned and regarded the fop, doing her best to conceal the revulsion she felt. “One can only be astonished,” she said, trying to move away.
“I saw you open the doors. An excellent precaution. You are always so perspicacious, Madame Vernet.” His eyes lingered on Victoire in a way that made her want to scrub her skin raw to be rid of his gaze. “I have said before that you are most acute.”
“How kind,” she said brusquely.
“Still,” Talleyrand went on, his expression more serpentine than ever, “one wonders how he intended to escape. If, indeed, that is his intention.”
“Perhaps he is a diversion, or intends to provide one,” said Victoire, again attempting to get away from the sinister dandy.
“Or it may be that he intends to sacrifice himself in protest. Do you think Pichegru is the sort who would immolate himself? Or is he going to try to ruin Bernadotte and the accord with the Swedes?” His laughter sounded like stones breaking. “What do you think, Madame Vernet? You are so often in the right.”
“I don’t know,” she said bluntly. “I wish I did.” She made another attempt to break free of Talleyrand only to find that he was keeping limping pace with her.
“A bloodbath here, so that the First Consul arrives to carnage—wouldn’t that create trouble?” At last he stepped away. “Whatever is in motion, it is too late for you to stop it, Madame Vernet.” He stretched his mouth wide and then bowed.
Victoire continued to move her way through the guests, who were now growing dangerously restive. She wanted to reach the reception line before any of the military men turned the reception into a battleground. Although she did not know what she would do to stop such a disaster, she hoped that something would occur to her.
The Guards and the servants had been formed into a protective escort for the Swedes, and now, with Bernadotte leading them, they hastened toward the nearest of the open French windows. As they made their way through the ballroom, Victoire overhead Vernet call out their destination to her: Sacre Famille, the small twelfth-century church half a block away.
Hearing this, Victoire felt a rush of relief. At least there would not be a pitched battle in the ballroom, and if the Swedes were taken to safety, there was an excellent chance that Napoleon could be warned in time.
The ballroom was in complete disarray. Only Desirée and her Aunt Hortense remained at the door. Those waiting in line were now confused and distressed, and several of the men had called for arms, their dress swords being good for little more than slicing cake. Pichegru was surrounded by the men who had accompanied him, and most of them had drawn their pistols.
Suddenly there was a running surge of servants from the rear of the hotel, all of them men and all armed with cudgels. They rushed at the men gathered with Pichegru, a few crying aloud.
Desirée stood where she had been left, her pretty face completely unreadable.
In the ballroom a woman screamed, and at that half the company broke for the French windows at a run. The rest were either too upset to act or too confused to know what was best to do. Three of the tall, standing candelabrae in the entryhall were overset, and their light extinguished almost at once, giving Pichegru and his company the advantage of darkness as the servants closed with them.
Desirée tugged her Aunt by the sleeve and drew her into the ballroom, where more of the women had gathered near the musicians.
After a moment’s pause, Victoire started toward the hallway, trying to make out what was happening in the uncertain light. For the most part all she could see was a flailing jumble of bodies. Fright warred with curiosity and determination within her. She cursed her elaborate ballgown and long white gloves, wishing now she were dressed for a hard ride or work in the kitchen.
Then there was a shot.
Now several of the women screamed, and Desirée raised her voice. “Pray be calm. The soldiers will protect us,” she said confidently, and addressed the master of the consort. “Play that new march that Paisiello composed, the dignified one you were to play for the First Consul’s arrival,” she ordered.
The violinist stared at her as if she were insane.
“It will quiet these women and keep them from panicking,” said Desirée, and indicated her Aunt Hortense, who was breathing in long, shuddering gasps. “Do it now, churl, or—”
The violinist gave a few hasty orders and struck a downbeat with his bow.
As a second shot was fired, the consort made a tremulous beginning to Paisiello’s “March Triumphant.”
“Good,” Desirée approved as the first clarion call of the trumpet sounded over the blows, oaths, and clattering in the hall.
Victoire was now at the doorway; she hesitated going further, for in the darkness she knew that she could come to grief. She heard the music grow louder and grudgingly admitted that Desirée had hit on the way to keep some order.
Another shot erupted, and this time there was the unmistakable cry of a gravely wounded man.
This spurred Victoire to action, and she plunged into the hallway toward the mass of struggling men. She still did not know what she would do when she reached the fight, but she felt driven to act.
A figure materialized from the shadows. “Madame Vernet, is this wise?” asked Talleyrand.
“They have to be stopped,�
� said Victoire, as eager to break away from him as to end the battle. “Someone is badly hurt. You can hear him.”
“With music to accompany him,” approved Talleyrand, and held out a sabre to her. “It is one of the Cuirassiers’,” he explained. “Not for dress. You may need it.”
Much as she hated taking anything from Talleyrand, Victoire accepted the long, curved sword. “Thank you.”
“Use it well,” said Talleyrand. “And do not fear. I have weapons with me.” He slid away into the shadows on the far side of the hall.
Victoire stood still for the better part of a minute, wondering who else was skulking about in the darkness. She tried to peer into the niches and alcoves that lined the hall, but could determine nothing; with a stern inner warning not to succumb to an attack of nerves, she closed her hand more firmly about the hilt of the saber. Then she heard two more shots in quick succession, and she caught up her train over her arm and hurried toward the fighting men.
She had almost reached the chaotic battle when Pichegru’s men broke free of the servants, retreating toward the coach entrance of the hotel amid shouts and the ring of steel on steel.
Behind them the sound of the march was growing in volume.
One of the combatants—a servant—was flung back from the rest; he careened into Victoire, all but knocking her off her feet. He muttered an apology and staggered away, one hand pressed to the side of his face where blood seeped through his fingers.
Victoire advanced again, and this time she was able to seize one of the servants by his shoulder and pull him back from the fray. “You’ll be shot if—”
She was interrupted by more explosions as Pichegru and his men reached the entrance. There coachmen joined with the servants to attempt to thwart Pichegru’s escape, many of them bringing their long whips into play.
There were more discharges of pistols, and one of the coachmen fell dead, while a servant collapsed with a shattered leg.
MV02 Death Wears a Crown Page 25