“This obsession, Madame Vernet, is not to your credit. You have always appeared to be a woman of sense, which is why I have listened to you when I would not generally give such serious attention to a woman. But now you have let yourself be overcome by your notion that there are more traitors than there are. It is understandable,” he went on in a condescending way. “After such harrowing experiences, it is hardly surprising that you should think that the problem is vaster than it is.”
“I’m not hysterical or overwrought,” said Victoire with admirable calm. “I’m not upset by anything but the stubborn blindness to danger that everyone has adopted.” She rose. “I know you’re busy and that you gave me this time because you have none else to spare.”
“You have duties to attend to, as well, Madame Vernet,” said Fouche, doing his best to be courteous to her, for as annoying as she was, she had the approval of Napoleon himself, and the friendship of Murat; Fouche was not so reckless as to risk earning the disapproval of either of those men.
“Yes, I do. And whether it suits you or not, I’ll attend to them.” She curtsied and let herself out the door, doing her best to control her temper. In the street she summoned a cab, and as the driver drew up, she warned him that his horse was about to cast a shoe. “Off-side front,” she informed him. “I can hear it.”
The driver stared at her as she climbed into his vehicle. “Where do you want to go, Madame?” he asked, paying no attention to her warning.
She provided her address, then changed her mind. “No, take me to the hotel Bernadotte. Do you know—”
“I know the place,” said the driver, whose opinion of his passenger went a bit higher.
“The coach entrance, then, and drive carefully.” She leaned back and drew her coat more tightly around her against the pervasive chill. Her frown deepened as they drew nearer the Bernadotte hotel, and was quite marked by the time she paid the driver and stepped out of the cab. “That shoe’s gone,” she informed the driver. “Best have it replaced before your horse is lame.”
The butler who greeted her informed her that Madame Bernadotte was not home, but if Madame Vernet cared to wait, she should return in half an hour. “She’s with her dressmaker,” he explained.
“As is all the world,” said Victoire. “Yes, I will wait if you don’t mind. I’d appreciate a cup of coffee, if you would be kind enough to provide it.”
The butler looked a bit put off by the request, then said, “My master is currently having coffee in the library. If it would suit you to join him?”
“Certainly, if I am not intruding,” said Victoire at once, pleased to have this unexpected opportunity to speak privately with Bernadotte.
It was apparent that the butler did not approve, but he led Victoire through the hall toward the library, remarking that most of the blood had been cleaned from the floor but that the carpet was ruined by it. “A great loss,” the butler declared, “for it was made especially for this passage.”
“How unfortunate,” said Victoire indifferently, and added with genuine concern, “What of the injured servants?”
“Two were killed, as I suppose you know. One ... well, the physician is not able to say what happened, but he was struck a number of times on the head, and now he does not seem to be himself. Of course, it may be that he requires more time to heal, but he’s very forgetful, which has never been the case before.” He closed his mouth very suddenly, as if he thought he had said too much.
“That is sad news,” consoled Victoire with feeling as the butler opened the door to the library and announced her to Bernadotte.
The general was seated at one of two long trestle tables, a tray untouched by his arm. Two large volumes of maps were open in front of him; he was startled as he looked up at the butler’s appearance. “Who did you say?” he asked. Bernadotte was relaxing in only a dress shirt and uniform inexpressibles; the shirt was plain, but well tailored, which was hardly surprising as Bernadotte was the youngest son of a most successful tailor in Pau, the capital of the most distant province of southwestern France, Gascony.
Until a few months ago Bernadotte had been without any duties or command. Implicated in a plot to overthrow Napoleon, he had been appointed ambassador to the United States, mostly to get him far away from France. But before he could leave to take this station, Napoleon sold Louisiana and the post lost its importance. Without orders Bernadotte had returned to Paris and waited for over a year. Only within the last few weeks had Napoleon needed his services, this time to squire about the Swedish delegation. The activity agreed with Bernadotte and he looked both happier and healthier than he had on his visit with Desirée two months earlier.
When the general saw who the visitor was, he smiled and gestured for her to sit down in the expansive way of most Gascons, which the sophisticated Parisians found laughably provincial.
Victoire curtsied as the butler stood aside. “Good afternoon, General,” she said, and approached him, holding out her hand. “I hope I do not intrude.”
“No,” said Bernadotte mendaciously. “Please do come in, Madame Vernet, and give me the benefit of your conversation for half an hour.”
“How kind,” said Victoire, admiring the skill with which Bernadotte had so courteously limited her visit.
“My wife might well be back by that time, and would be pleased to see you.” He looked away. “You must not be offended by her starts, Madame Vernet. I know that there are times she is ... difficult, but I assure you she means no harm.”
“You are very kind,” said Victoire, choosing one of the chairs on the opposite side of the table and sitting. “I have not been distressed by anything your wife has said to me.”
Bernadotte motioned the butler to leave, adding, “Bring coffee for Madame Vernet, and perhaps some cheese.”
The butler bowed and withdrew.
“Those are magnificent volumes,” said Victoire, leaning forward a little.
“A gift from the Swedish delegation,” said Bernadotte. “This one is a complete atlas and travel diary of Sweden, and this of France. The maps and illustrations are most commendable.” He paused. “I never thought knowing how to speak Swedish would be useful.”
“A very pretty conceit, and very appropriate,” approved Victoire as she looked at the books, wondering a little how she was going to turn the conversation to the plotters now that she had the opportunity to speak with Bernadotte in confidence.
She need not have worried, for Bernadotte brought up the matter himself. “I cannot flatter myself that you are curious about the Swedish delegation, or that your visit is only a matter of form. I suppose you are investigating about Pichegru, and how he came to be here.” He saw her raise her brows. “There is no need to dissemble, Madame Vernet. I know your skills as well as anyone, and I confess I expected to find you on my doorstep well before Fouche’s men.”
Victoire could feel the flush spread over her face and down her neck. “Dear me, I had no notion that—”
“You have discovered the English conspirators, and you are searching for those in high places who gave them help. And because Pichegru arrived at my reception, you have good reason to suppose I might know something of the matter. Have I discerned your purpose?” He looked weary as he asked, and his large, heavy-lidded eyes seemed to droop.
“That will make my time with you much more productive, and I thank you for your candor, for it makes my situation easier,” Victoire replied, abandoning the more indirect examination she might have used. “Do you, in fact, know how Pichegru came to have an invitation to your reception?”
Bernadotte shook his head twice. “I have been troubled by that myself. You may believe me or not, but I did not provide the invitation, and I have not been able to discover who did. You may ask among my guests, if you wish, and you will find that I’ve been there before you.” He sat back and stared at the far wall. “So far I’ve learned nothing.”
“Nothing,” she said, nodding. “Does this distress you?”
“Yes,” he admitted at once. “I’m faced with suspecting my colleagues of lying, or my servants of duplicity, or perhaps worse than duplicity.” He shook his head once, as if to rid himself of lingering doubts. “I trust you’ll fare more successfully than I have.”
“Thank you,” said Victoire. “But I fear that so far I’ve accomplished very little.” She glanced at the door as the butler returned with a serving maid accompanying him, bringing another pot of coffee, a cup, and a plate of marzipan-stuffed pastries.
Bernadotte said nothing while these were presented, and when the servants were gone, he continued. “The event has put a cloud over me; I know that my wife’s suffered because of it.”
This was a dangerous subject, and Victoire framed her question very carefully, aware of how chary Bernadotte could be. “Your wife has not said much to me concerning the fracas. Has she reached a conclusion of her own, do you think?”
“I think she’s pleased that it caused difficulty for Napoleon,” Bernadotte said diffidently. “She hasn’t discussed it with me except to remark on Pichegru’s temerity. She told me that not even Napoleon would be so audacious, and for her, this was a most telling comment.”
“Truly,” said Victoire, and went on gingerly. “I admired her steadiness during the event. She must be credited with keeping the occasion from degenerating into a rout.”
“Yes,” said Bernadotte, with the first indication of friendliness. “Steadiness is a very good description of her behavior. She was amazing, wasn’t she, telling the consort to play music?”
“She has great presence of mind,” said Victoire. “In such an emergency, there are few of us who could keep our heads as well.”
“Exactly,” said Bernadotte, and in a rush added, “I was so grateful to her that I could not express it but with a gift. I have ordered an emerald necklace for her, to show the depth of my appreciation.” He poured coffee into Victoire’s cup, then into his. “I never knew what staunch character my wife has until now.”
“Staunch character,” Victoire echoed. “Yes, that’s her nature, isn’t it?”
Now that he had started to talk more freely, Bernadotte went on enthusiastically. “I am certain that everyone was impressed by her good sense. As they are impressed with yours, Madame Vernet. I had not seen this aspect of her before and now that I have, my devotion to her is greater. I am so moved by her gallantry.” He glanced at Victoire and then away. “You may think that an odd word, gallantry, but—”
“I think it a great compliment, and I am certain your wife is honored by it,” said Victoire quickly.
“She was so grand, wasn’t she?” This time Bernadotte actually smiled. “Had she planned for the event, she could not have managed it with more grace, could she?”
Victoire regarded Bernadotte carefully. “No,” she said after a little hesitation. “No, she could not have done it better had she planned it.”
* * *
With the Coronation four days away Vernet was gone almost constantly, and Victoire was kept occupied with a long string of social obligations that left her exhausted, and, as she admitted to Odette, “wishing I could say something shocking and rude, just for variety.” The carpenters were gone and the house was oddly still in the fading evening.
Odette had finished sweeping the three fireplaces in the house and was about to tackle the tremendous and messy work of cleaning the stove; she slapped at her heavy apron and gestured in exasperation. “Who does not want that from time to time?”
“Ah, but this is so constant,” said Victoire, glancing around the kitchen. “The carpenters will arrive here eventually in the morning, and when you finish cursing them, it’ll be better.” She drew up one of the chairs and sat down. “But I must say that it is pleasant to have a few hours to myself, and the chance to loosen my stays.”
Odette laughed, and gave herself a little more time before starting her unwelcome task. “I have hopes that we’ll have some winter vegetables this year. I put the seedlings in last month and thus far they are growing.”
“Excellent,” said Victoire. “You’re doing very good work, Odette, and I know I have not noticed it as I ought.”
“There’s too much occupying your thoughts,” said Odette.
“And there will be for some little time to come,” said Victoire. “Do forgive me for the oversights I know I have committed.” She chuckled once. “It is a compliment to you, in a way, for it means that you are running the house so smoothly that it requires little of my attention.”
“It’s a pleasure to me.” Odette pushed her hair back from her face. “I’d rather be left to do my work properly than have to answer to you for everything I undertake. I know of such mistresses, and I want no part of them.”
“And a good thing it is,” said Victoire with feeling. “As you haven’t one such.”
Odette grinned. “So I know.” She was about to add a quip when a sharp rap at the back door caught her attention, and she turned toward it in surprise.
“It is late in the afternoon for a tradesman,” said Victoire.
“I expect no tradesmen,” said Odette, her surprise giving way to alarm. “Do you think—”
The knock was repeated, this time more loudly.
“I think it would be wise to answer the door,” said Victoire, rising and starting toward it herself.
Odette quickly moved to lift the latch and peer out into the darkness. “Who is it?” she demanded in a loud tone.
There was little light spilling from the kitchen to the porch next to the pantry, but it was possible to make out a single figure standing in the shadows. A soft voice said, “Is Mad-dame Vernet ... is s-she here?”
Odette stared at the young man. “Those who seek Madame Vernet do not come to this door,” she said at her most imposing.
“Is she here?” the young man persisted. “It is very imp-portant.”
Victoire had risen and now said, “It’s all right, Odette. Let him in.”
Disapproving, Odette stood aside. “Enter,” she ordered the young man.
Brezolles came hesitantly into the kitchen, like a cat uncertain of his reception.
“Madame Vernet,” he said, bowing in good form.
“You have the advantage of me, Monsieur,” said Victoire.
“I ought not t-tell you,” he said, looking embarrassed.
Odette scowled, but Victoire only shrugged. “If that is how it must be, then—” She indicated one of the chairs. “Be seated, and tell me what you are doing here; why did you want to see me?”
Brezolles ignored the chair. “We want to leave France, most of us. Things have gone b-badly for us.”
“Most of you want to leave,” said Victoire, doing her best to conceal the eagerness that spread through her.
“Yes. The C-Corsican is too closely g-guarded.” His gaze shifted to Odette guiltily. “We want only to b-be gone.”
“Who are the ‘we’ you speak of?” Victoire had been listening to the stammering young man closely, admiring his aristocratic accent, but hearing something else in how he spoke, a subtle shift of rhythm that hinted of the cadences of another language. “The English?” she guessed.
“Two are English,” Brezolles said. “The rest are French.”
“Aristos,” said Victoire. “Those who fled the Revolution.”
“A good thing they are gone,” said Odette. “They plundered the country.”
“The C-Corsican has done worse,” said Brezolles, his eyes brightening.
“And you seek to restore the old order?” Victoire asked.
Brezolles straightened up. “Yes,” he declared. Then his pride deserted him. “But we c-can’t do it now. Most of us want t-to leave.”
“Not all,” Victoire said.
“No,” Brez
olles admitted. He looked nervously around the kitchen as if he expected to see soldiers appear.
“You worked with Pichegru and his ... associates?” Victoire asked. “You are one of those who took me captive?” She had not intended to make this accusation, and the intensity of her feeling took her aback.
“It was Mont-trachet who ...” Brezolles took a step backward. “I did not like it.” He bowed again, this time apologetically. “S-Sackett-Hartley would never have allowed it.”
“Sackett-Hartley!” Victoire exclaimed. There was that English name again. Her senses became keener as she stared at Brezolles. “You were not arrested with the others.”
“No.” He stared down at his feet. “We were not caught.”
“How many are you?” Victoire asked.
“Eight. Two English, six French.” He cleared his throat as if that could diminish his stammer. “If you would h-help us, I’d tell you where P-Pichegru is.”
“And who his allies are?” Victoire asked as she fought off a ripple of dread.
“I reg-gret, I do not know who they are,” admitted Brezolles.
Victoire sighed in aggravation, convinced that the young man had told her the truth, for if she were part of such a conspiracy, she thought, she would make sure that as many of the conspirators as possible were unknown to one another. “That’s very inconvenient,” she remarked; there was a ball that night, starting at nine in the evening, and she had to appear there. Failure to be present would be a severe embarrassment to Vernet. No matter what this young man told her, she would not be able to act on what she learned until the following morning, and by that time Pichegru might be gone. “All right. Where is Pichegru?”
MV02 Death Wears a Crown Page 27