It seemed that Victoire was not alone at the ship-yard; in fact, an entire fleet of armored airships was a-building. Seventeen more keels had already been laid, with plans for a further five. No wonder Fouché had been driving his prisoners so very hard to produce more and more and more iron. The only good news in this disturbing missive was that Victoire, the exemplar upon whose model the whole fleet would be built, was the only one near completion; the others were awaiting her successful launch to prove some troublesome questions of design.
“This makes our curtain,” said Fox, curtain being the word they had agreed to use instead of escape when speaking in public, “still more urgent. We must raise the curtain immediately, before this exemplar proves herself!”
“This changes nothing,” Captain Singh countered. “We will raise the curtain only when the details upon which we have agreed have been discovered, and there is no indication the exemplar is any closer to completion than before. Furthermore, the preparations for the performance are already quite rushed, and cannot be hastened further.” Though his outward attitude appeared composed, to Arabella it was clear that considerable heat seethed below his placid words.
Arabella was seeking to formulate some comment which might redirect the two men’s words in a calmer and more productive direction when she noted they had both fallen suddenly quiet. Following their gazes, she saw a detachment of eight of Fouché’s personal platoon marching directly toward them.
“I will answer their questions,” Captain Singh murmured, reaching into his coat pocket for his papers. Fox bristled at his arrogation of authority, but with only moments before the soldiers arrived he held his tongue.
The eight drew themselves up before the three with a crash of boots upon the street’s hard-packed earth. “Vous viendrez avec nous,” said their leader, inclining his head fractionally to Arabella.
Captain Singh’s calm demeanor appeared unruffled as he stepped forward. “I shall comply,” he said, “though I have other business…”
“Arrêtez-vous!” interrupted the soldier, raising an immaculate white-gloved hand. “Seulement la madame.”
Arabella glanced briefly at Captain Singh, and then at the nervous Fox, before setting her jaw and stepping forward. Her heart pounded—had they been incautious? Had they trusted the wrong person? Or was this demand unrelated to their escape plan? “Where are you taking me?” she replied in French.
“Au commandant Fouché,” the man replied, and without another word the eight men formed up around her and marched her quickly away.
* * *
The tumult Arabella had observed in the streets of Marieville grew still more agitated as she and her silent escort approached the manoir; French officers and Venusian collaborators rushed hither and yon with what seemed to her to be expressions of near-panic.
The soldiers delivered her to another group, these still more immaculate and ornamented with braid and gilt, who conveyed her rapidly down carpeted halls to a room she had never before entered: Fouché’s private office. Here the man himself sat writing behind a great desk, rococo with gold leaf, but when she entered he did not rise—he merely nodded to his men, who bowed and retired, leaving Arabella stranded in the middle of the broad and empty floor before it.
For an endless minute Fouché examined her silently, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled unmoving before him. His eyes, as she had noted before, betrayed a keen intelligence but no emotion whatsoever—they might have been the eyes of some ancient tortoise, one who had seen a thousand empires rise and fall and cared nothing for any of them.
Fouché then rose and walked around Arabella, still not speaking, examining her quite closely as though she were a prize huresh whose purchase he was considering. Finally he came to a halt before her and spoke without preamble.
“Sa Majesté Impériale et Royale, Napoléon le Premier, va nous rendre une visite,” he said. “Il souhaite un dîner intime pour lui et son impératrice Marie Louise, qui a donné son nom à Marieville.”
Arabella’s mind whirled, barely able to comprehend Fouché’s words, never mind their import. Napoleon, the Great Ogre, was coming here, to this shabby prison-camp? An intimate dinner? And the empress Marie Louise, after whom Marieville was named, would accompany him?
“Je ne comprends pas,” was all she could manage. “Pourquoi suis-je ici?”
“Fille idiote!” he snapped. “Certainement vous n’y penserez pas que l’Impératrice des Français dînerait seulement avec des soldats! Il doit y avoir un nombre égal d’hommes et de femmes!”
At this she could only stare stupidly, as though to confirm his assessment of her as an “idiot girl.” Something about the Empress of the French not dining with only soldiers, and how there must be an equal number of men and women.
“Vous serez ma compagnon de table!” Fouché continued. “Ce soir!”
His eyes upon hers were cold and hard and unmoving as the meaning of his words penetrated her dumbfounded brain.
She was to be Fouché’s dinner companion.
At an intimate dinner with the Emperor Napoleon.
That very evening.
18
AN INTIMATE DINNER
Though her ability to speak French nearly deserted her in the wake of that revelation, Arabella did manage to make clear in stammering fashion that she understood what was being asked of her. But before she could reject his demand—and she did wish to reject it, in the strongest possible terms—Fouché dismissed her brusquely from his presence.
With a rapid stream of French in his unfamiliar accent, Fouché handed her off to some aide-de-camp in a powdered wig, who conducted her—with a strange combination of fawning politesse and iron-hard military discipline—down the hall to a large and well-lit dressing-room.
Her first impression was that the room was crowded, a teeming mass of Frenchmen and Venusians. But in a moment she realized it was merely mirrored—an enormous triple glass stood in the corner, reflecting and redoubling a French officer, a trembling boy, two guards armed with rifles who stood rigid by the door, and three Venusians in the costume of French maids.
The officer was a man she had never seen before, and from his bearing and accoutrements he seemed to be some sort of military tailor, pressed into this service rather against his will. He looked her up and down and commanded the boy to bring forth dress after dress from a large trunk in the corner. Never before had Arabella even seen such a collection of fashionable confections, never mind having them draped upon her, one after another, as though she were some witless mannequin. Her protests were ignored, or drew a sharp “Ne bougez pas!”—the command reinforced by the Venusians’ firm, clammy grip upon her upper arms and the glares of the armed guards.
Eventually the officer settled upon a voluminous court dress of shining white Venusian silk, with a Grecian front, long sleeves, and enormous train, all bound with embossed ribband and trimmed with tulle. It was absurdly impractical, and far more ostentatious and old-fashioned than any thing Arabella would have expected even for a formal dinner party. Perhaps this was the latest French court fashion, or perhaps it was merely a reflection of Napoleon’s execrable taste and addiction to the trappings of royalty. The officer handed the dress to the Venusians; then, with a curt bow, he and the other men retreated to the hall and shut the door behind themselves.
The Venusians, she realized at once, were as uneasy with the situation as she was. Though they were costumed as women, Arabella was privately coming to the conclusion that among the Venusians the sexes were not divided quite as they were among Earthlings—their concepts of grammatical gender were quite confusing—and the awkwardness with which they carried themselves in female dress showed that they were even less familiar, and less comfortable, with French courtly fashion than she was.
She turned to the Venusian who held the dress. “I will do it,” she said in Venusian, or something approximating that. She had no idea of the verb “to dress oneself,” at best a partial understanding of the future tense, an
d little command of the niceties of Venusian etiquette, but she held out her arms to receive the dress and gave the best gentle smile she could manage.
Trembling, the Venusian laid the dress in Arabella’s arms. The brilliant white Venusian silk slid along her forearms like water—it was the finest, smoothest fabric she had ever felt, and despite the circumstances her skin thrilled at the touch.
Arabella nodded her thanks, swallowed, then—doing her best to make it a friendly request rather than an imperious command as she had seen from the French officer—she gestured to the Venusians to turn around.
It seemed to her that there was relief in their broad, shimmering eyes as they did so.
Divesting herself of her ordinary clothing was nearly a pleasure, given the heat of the day and the close stillness of the dressing-room, but then she had to work her way into the voluminous silk dress without assistance—which was a struggle, though she would still rather struggle on her own than with the questionable help of the Venusian maids—and soon she found herself perspiring to an embarrassing extent. The dress was far more vast and elaborate than any thing Arabella had ever seen, even at the most fashionable balls, and she supposed the enormous quantities of silk involved must be intended to ostentatiously display the owner’s wealth. But, eventually, she did manage to dispose the mountain of fabric upon her body sufficiently for decency, and with a gentle “gogalla”—a request for help—she called the maids to assist her in arranging it to better effect.
Soon the tailor returned, along with the boy and the guards. He made a disgusted sound, a sort of “bouf,” with his lips, and immediately gestured her to stand upon a small ottoman before the mirrors. There he twitched and tucked, pinned and stitched, and poked at Arabella and the dress until he stood back, sighed, and sniffed “Ça ira.”
One question nagged at her. “Combien coûte la robe?” she asked—with some trepidation, for the gown was so very fine that she was certain the price was quite beyond her current means.
“C’est un cadeau de Sa Majesté Impériale.”
A gift from Napoleon himself?
She was not certain how she felt about that.
After one final twitch of the fabric at Arabella’s shoulder, the tailor shooed Arabella into the hall, where she was surprised to encounter an even more startled Lady Corey.
“You look utterly divine!” Lady Corey exclaimed, but they had no time to exchange any further words; the great lady was immediately whisked away into the dressing-room. Two guards, who had apparently accompanied Lady Corey, took Arabella in hand and ushered her down the hall to a sitting-room, where she was at least permitted to seat herself and rest for a bit. The guards remained, standing stiffly by the door.
Arabella sat, awaiting she knew not what, for what felt like several hours. There was no clock in the room, and nothing to read or otherwise occupy her time. She did her best not to wrinkle or sully the dress; Venusian silk of this quality must surely cost the Earth.
Captain Singh, and probably Captain Fox as well, must be frantic with worry. She had no way to send a message to them; if Fouché had not deigned to inform them of her situation they would not learn of it until she returned. If, indeed, she were allowed to return! Would she be required, she wondered with a shudder, to continue as Fouché’s companion for the duration of Napoleon’s visit … or for the duration of the war?
Her distraught musings were suddenly interrupted by the reappearance of Lady Corey, who rushed in the door and immediately embraced her. “Oh, it was horrid!” Lady Corey cried. “Those beastly frogs kept pawing at me, and that terrible Frenchman would not stop shouting!”
“There, there,” Arabella said, though her attempts at comforting Lady Corey were somewhat hampered by their voluminous dresses. “It is over now. And, however horrible the fitting, that dress is lovely.” It was a round robe, of finest white Venusian silk, with demi-traine and military front; though not quite so vast as Arabella’s, it was equally sumptuous, and very flattering to Lady Corey’s generous figure.
“Thank you, my dear,” Lady Corey sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with a silk handkerchief. “But I must confess I feel rather like a lamb ritually cleansed and beribboned before the sacrifice.”
“I am certain no ill will befall us,” Arabella said, though she was in fact not certain of any such thing. She glanced to the two guards, who stood rigid and unmoving.
Once she had resumed her composure, Lady Corey stepped back and examined Arabella with a skeptical eye. “Exactly the sort of pretentious show of wealth I would expect of that parvenu Napoleon,” she pronounced, “but the color does suit you wonderfully. Might I see the back?”
Arabella tried to turn about, but the dress’s grand train twisted about her feet. “How am I supposed to move in this? It feels as though I am wearing a main-sail!”
“You must move with deliberation and grace.” She guided Arabella through the motions, reminding her of the importance of an easy, graceful deportment suited to her youth and pliancy, and advising her on the proper use of the train.
Then a peremptory knock at the door interrupted their conversation. It was Fouché, in the most elaborate uniform Arabella had yet beheld, accompanied by Fulton—in comparatively restrained evening dress—and a half-dozen of Fouché’s personal troops.
“Mesdames,” Fouché said, bowing. “Si vous voudrez nous accompagner…”
His manners were impeccable, but still his eyes were cold and dead and calculating.
* * *
As they proceeded down the hall Fouché instructed them all, Fulton included, as to their proper conduct in the presence of the emperor and his wife. They were to bow or curtsey when introduced, not speak until spoken to, and to address them as Votre Majesté Impériale. The empress, in particular, was to be given every deference and courtesy—the slightest offense to her would be counted as a very grave transgression and would be subject to severe penalties afterward. This last was accompanied by a significant look to Fulton, whose glare in return combined American assertiveness with a certain amount of abashed contrition.
This was the first occasion upon which Arabella had spent any significant amount of time with Fulton, a handsome man aged about fifty. Though, as an American, his manners suffered from a lack of refinement, he was clearly a man of great intelligence, and despite the pressure of the forthcoming meeting with Napoleon he displayed a charming degree of ease and good humor. And though his accent in English was flat and grating upon the ear, his French was excellent; it was he who provided translation to Lady Corey. Arabella, for her part, found herself depending upon his translations more than she cared to admit even to herself.
They arrived at the end of the hallway, where a grand pair of doors stood closed; two pristine and identical soldiers in ornate uniform stood like ram-rods at either side. Fouché paused, cast an appraising eye over the party, then nodded to the soldiers. Moving in absolute unison, they drew the doors open.
The room beyond was the largest Arabella had beheld since coming to Marieville, though—like every other structure in the town—it had plainly been thrown up recently and with little attention to detail. But the furnishings were of the highest order: a large round table set for six, chairs of gleaming dark wood enhanced with gilt and embroidered cushions, a glittering chandelier, and a broad sideboard heavy with ornate china. Soldiers stood like chess pieces, evenly ranged along each wall, each with a bayoneted rifle precisely vertical at his side. And at the sideboard, sipping from a glass of wine …
Napoleon Bonaparte. The Tyrant, the Dictator, the Great Ogre; sworn enemy of all that was right and good. It was his personal ambition and pride that had kept first Europe, then all the worlds in a state of nearly continual warfare for the past fifteen years. Millions had died at his order. Yet here he stood, no beast at all but an ordinary human man. And yet, somehow, he seemed to fill the room.
At his side was a quiet young woman, plump and buxom—a very young woman, barely more than a girl in fact; she seeme
d half Napoleon’s age and indeed not much older than Arabella herself.
“Mesdames et monsieur,” Fouché said, bowing, “permittez moi de vous presenter Sa Majesté Impériale Napoléon Premier, et Sa Majesté Impériale Marie Louise.”
* * *
Arabella, Lady Corey, and Fulton paid their obeisances to Napoleon and his empress as they had been instructed. Then, as they were being presented in turn, Arabella inspected the emperor.
Despite his reputation, Napoleon was not particularly short in stature. Shorter than Arabella, to be sure, but due to her upbringing on Mars this was far from unusual; he seemed of average height, accounting for the rather substantial heels of his boots. Nor was he as ugly as he was portrayed in the gazettes; in fact, though his features were swarthy and his mien was rather weary and preoccupied, he was more than passing handsome and his dark eyes burned with keen interest in every thing around him. Indeed, when those eyes met Arabella’s, she felt herself pinned to the spot. “Madame,” he acknowledged with a slight nod, and she found herself unable to respond with either word or gesture.
Had he not been the sworn enemy of all Arabella held dear, she could perhaps begin to understand why so many had pledged their lives and fortunes to his cause.
To Arabella’s surprise, the Emperor of the French was not adorned with silk, satin, furs, gold, nor jewels; instead, he wore a simple colonel’s uniform, with only a silver medallion on the breast to distinguish him from any ordinary officer. In this he stood in sharp contrast to his empress. Her gown of pristine Venusian silk was actually somewhat less ornate than Arabella’s, but exceptionally fine, and she wore it with such natural grace and poise that she outshone every one in the room for quality and elegance. Only Napoleon’s galvanizing presence, Arabella realized, had prevented her from being the very first thing to which Arabella’s eye had been drawn upon entering the room.
Arabella and the Battle of Venus Page 25