by Joan Smith
“He has escaped! Bonaparte has escaped! He is coming back. It’s war!” the servant shouted into the darkness, then rushed off in another direction with his light.
Inside the locked room, there was a sound of rapid movement, of raised voices. “Give me the money!” Mademoiselle Feydeau demanded.
“Don’t!” Chabon ordered, but he had, apparently, no gun, as the lady’s next speech showed whose command had been obeyed.
"Merci, melord. A pleasure doing business with you,” she declared. Then the door was unlocked, opened wide, and she backed out, with a little silver mounted pistol pointing inwards, where Harvey stood smiling fondly at his “diamond,” and Chabon glared after Mademoiselle.
Moncrief stepped up behind her and reached over her shoulder for the pistol. Feeling his approach, she turned, with a murderous light in her eye. The movement was so swift Moncrief missed it, but Harvey, glancing up, saw Chabon whip a pistol, rather similar to the woman’s, from his pocket and take aim. “Deuce take it, Chabon . . ." he complained, having a feeling Googie would not like a pistol being discharged at one of her parties. On the other hand, she might like it very well. Never could tell about Goog.
Even as he spoke, a flash of fire came from the muzzle. There was a deafening bang as Chabon took aim at Mademoiselle, and . . . missed. It was Moncrief who emitted a moan as a ball entered his shoulder, throwing him against the far wall.
Mademoiselle laughed exultantly, turned with her gun still pointed towards Palgrave and Chabon, then darted down the hallway, to disappear into an unused chamber. Chabon and Palgrave came to Moncrief's aid, the former uttering exclamations of horror and regret.
“Never mind that, go after her! Stop her!” Moncrief ordered.
“But are you sure you’re all right? A doctor . . ." Chabon said. “I am so sorry. A most regrettable accident. I have, unfortunately, very little experience with guns of any kind.”
"I'll live. Stop her, before she gets clean away.”
“With all those men you have posted, there is no chance,” Chabon countered.
“Go!” Moncrief bellowed, employing the last of his strength. He tried to heave himself from the wall against which he was leaning, then the scene before him faded gently from view, to become a sheet of black, as he eased into unconsciousness.
Glancing to him, Palgrave saw with a wince of distaste that there was blood oozing between his cousin’s fingers, which clutched rather limply at his wounded shoulder. “Better do as he says, Chabon. There’s a good fellow. I’ll get a sawbones.”
Moncrief began to topple forward, into Chabon’s arms. With no one to urge them after Mademoiselle, they turned their attention to Moncrief, taking him to a private parlor, calling the housekeeper, but all with great urgency, so that Chabon was soon able to go after the French woman.
Harvey put the diamond in his pocket, and went to look for Googie, to tell her of his success. “My pet, have you heard?” she asked. “Napoleon has escaped from Ella, or Elba—wherever it was they had him. Is it not gorgeous? Such fun! And the timing could not be better—he did it at my party. I will be the talk of the whole city.”
“I have better news than that, love. Got the blue diamond for you. Said I would. Come into my study and put it on. Then you can wear it into the ballroom and accept congratulations.”
“Oh Harvey! Googie wuvs you!” she chirped ecstatically, and nipped along after him, while his little chest swelled with pride.
He pulled it from his pocket and dangled it before his eyes. She regarded it, dismayed to see how antique and unlovely a setting it had. He pinned it to her bodice, where it nearly pulled the gown, none too strenuously tethered, from her bosom. This did not disturb her in the least, but she bit her lip, considering her position. After careful thought, she spoke. “I shan’t wear it tonight. Bonaparte’s escape will distract attention from me—it. We’ll have to have another party to introduce it, love.”
“Good idea,” he agreed, admiring the diamond, but still not admiring it so much that he was not envisioning a different setting. The golden fleece was too large even for Googie’s ample chest. A brooch was not the proper setting for it at all. A necklace it should be on, in the Lavalliere style. All the crack.
It was a quarter of an hour before Moncrief regained consciousness. The doctor, to his infinite relief, had already pried the bullet from his flesh, and was in the process of bandaging the wound. “More than a scratch,” the doctor cautioned. “It was imbedded deeply, but you will live. Lost a fair bit of blood. This will play havoc with your circulation.”
“Where’s Palgrave?” Moncrief demanded at once.
Harvey was eventually induced to leave his ballroom, to assure Moncrief that Chabon had gone after the woman. “Between Chabon and your men, no chance she’ll get away,” Harvey said, though he secretly wished for her safe delivery. Might there not be some chance he would have to return the diamond if she were caught, and his money returned? At least Mademoiselle had told him so, and he was very happy he had been able to point out to her the best manner of leaving to escape capture. He had the footman’s outfit waiting for her, just as she asked, and the mount tethered at the end of the garden.
The announcement of Bonaparte’s escape from Elba, coming so conveniently, had certainly aided her escape. “I wonder if the she-devil didn’t plant the rumor herself,” he mused. It had certainly clogged the roads with princes and ministers scampering back to headquarters to verify the news, and to discover what was to be done about it.
When he returned to his saloon, he found his party in a shambles. Hardly fifty people left, and none of them dancing, but only standing around in groups, giving their opinion. “Who started the story anyway?” he asked Kruger, who remained behind.
“They are saying a French messenger came to the doorway to tell Dalberg. It is said Talleyrand sent him. Well, I think I shall return to Vienna, and see if there’s anything in it. Where is Moncrief, by the by?”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? He’s been shot,” Harvey answered, with a little smile of surprise at having the pleasure of a delectable piece of gossip to circulate to those few remaining guests. “Yessir, winged in Feydeau’s escape. A great secret, Kruger. Not to tell a soul, but between me and you and the fence post, I have bought the Blue Tavernier for my wife. Care to see it?” he asked eagerly. “Like to have your opinion. Well—I’ll show it to Moncrief as well. He hasn’t had a look yet, in all the excitement, but it is certainly genuine, for Chabon authenticated it for me, and he, you know, is as shrewd as can stare.”
"Mon Dieu!” Kruger breathed. “By all means let us go to Moncrief. He must hear of this catastrophe!”
* * *
Chapter 26
The Countess von Rossner was quite simply disgusted with Moncrief. Love and a cough, she had always heard, could not be long hidden. Her sharp, rheumy eyes had discovered that he was in love with Maria. Why then did he not rush off to determine her safety? That should come above all else in his preoccupations. Did he not love her? Of course he did, she assured herself as her carriage dashed through the Vienna woods towards the city. He perhaps did not like that he loved her. She was a foreigner, and the anglais were insufferably narrow-minded in that regard. There was the little embarrassment of Peter’s having sold that forged painting in London—had he not been aware it was a fake?—and his present lack of funds. All these less than happy facts, however, Moncrief must be well aware of, and still his gray eyes glowed when he looked at her. So what had changed?
Bah, men! Peter as incomprehensible, blowing hot and cold. Quite ignoring her for weeks, then of a sudden, he was sending her violets. He was coming to sit his spreading bulk in her cozy saloon for a tête-à-tête, just like old times. He was chiding her for having Count Ribicoff for her escort at a do last week, and pretending he was jealous. Jealous! Much he cared if she hopped into bed with Ribicoff. He was afraid she would deposit her fat dowry with the Count, and that was that.
The lights were burning at Kruger’s house as her carriage drew up to the door. “Run in and see if Fräulein is in,” she commanded her footman, when he came to open the door. “If she is not, find out where the deuce she is gone to.”
Within two minutes, her man returned to inform her Fräulein Kruger was not at home. The carriage had not been called. She had not returned from the Duchesse de Sagan’s dinner party. They thought she was to go directly to the next do, at Palgrave’s chateau.
“But that is impossible!” the old Countess exclaimed, putting her gloved hand out to her footman, to be assisted to dismount from the carriage and go into the house. “The Duchesse left Maria at the front door hours ago. Where could she possibly be?” she asked the frowning butler.
“She has not been in the house since she left with her father for her first evening appointment,” he insisted.
It was a total mystery. She had disappeared from her own doorstep while it was still evening, without leaving a trace. “Search the garden, the grounds, the house,” she ordered. She went herself to the enclosed garden at the rear, where urns bearing withered brown skeletons of flowers whistled softly in the night breeze. Obviously she was not there. Her eyes scanned the back of the house. "Of course! Why did I not think of it sooner!” she exclaimed, and hastened her steps off to Mademoiselle Feydeau’s doorway. Repeated bangings gave no reply. Undaunted, she tried the door, and found it to be on the latch. There was a dark, chill silence all about her. She called thrice, and received no answer. She was about to leave, when she heard a dull, regular thumping coming from below. Fear clutched at her heart. She turned and darted out the front door, to seek the company of Kruger’s butler, armed with a lamp and a poker.
“There—you hear it. There is something bumping away down in the kitchen,” she pointed out, clutching at his arm, which clutched the poker. “You must go down and have a look, Shutz.”
The story of Bonaparte’s escape had run like wildfire through the city. Shutz had heard it, and took the notion that the Corsican General crouched in the kitchen below, ready to pounce and exterminate him. He hung back, while the Countess’s fears mounted ever higher.
“Coward! Come behind me then. Hide behind my skirts, if you are afraid,” she chided, snatching the lamp from his fingers, and peering over her shoulder to see that he did at least follow where he was afraid to lead.
In the dark kitchen, Maria heard the voices overhead, heard the footsteps, and knew someone was coming, but was struck with a strong doubt as to whether the persons came to rescue her, or do further harm. She fell suddenly silent, wondering what to do. The light in the stove had gone out an hour before. The room was dark as pitch, and becoming uncomfortably cold. She strained her ears to catch the sound of human voices, to see if she could distinguish their owners.
“It seemed to me the sound came from over there,” she heard a voice say.
“Hermione! Tante, I am here!” she called, gasping with relief.
“There, I told you so!” the Countess said to her companion, and charged forward to throw open the door and rush in. A log had rolled from the fuel basket directly into her path. She tripped over it, sending the lamp flying from her hand, to land with a crash. In a mad dash to retrieve it before it should set the room ablaze, Shutz pushed the Countess aside, to collide with the stove. She was an aging lady, neither agile nor strong. The jolt jarred her, sent her dropping to the floor in pain, with a shriek that rivaled a wounded buffalo’s.
“Oh—Oh I have surely broken something!” she moaned. “Maria—are you all right?”
“I am tied hand and foot,” Maria answered. “Never mind me, Shutz. See to the Countess first.”
“No, untie Maria first. Let her come to my aid. I don’t want this clumsy oaf trying to help me up, or he will tear me limb from limb. How do you come to be here, Maria? What on earth happened to you?”
“Mademoiselle Feydeau did it,” Maria replied, and gave the outlines of her story, while Shutz groped about the kitchen for a knife to cut her bonds.
“What a sly conniver she is,” the Countess said. “She is gone to meet Bonaparte of course. Ah—you would not have heard he is escaped!”
As soon as she was free and in control of her limbs, which took a few moments due to her cramped confinement, Maria went to her aunt’s aid. This caused such a cry of pain when she tried to help Hermione stand that it was decided to leave her where she lay till the doctor should arrive.
“Bring blankets and wine as soon as you have sent a boy off for the doctor, Shutz,” Maria ordered. “I am going to look for more lights, Auntie. I can’t see a thing by this dim lamp.”
Between comforting her aunt, pouring her wine and adding details to her story as they occurred to her, there was little chance for Maria to hear the Countess’s tale. The sharp pain in her left hip made the elder lady little inclined to speech in any case, but during a silence, she said, “I thought it very odd Moncrief did not come to look for you when I told him you had not arrived at the party. I daresay he was busy trying to catch Chabon.”
“What did he say? Was he worried?” Maria asked.
“Likely he was, only he did not show it as I thought he should.”
“He cannot have been greatly worried, or he would have sent a servant off to look for me in any case,” she said, with a certain stiffening of the jaw muscles that boded ill for him.
* * * *
There was much coming and going at the Kruger mansion in the late evening and early morning of March seventh and eighth. It was well after midnight when Herr Kruger arrived with news of Moncrief’s injury. This was nearly, but not quite, sufficient to pardon him in the daughter’s eyes. “What had he to say?” Maria asked.
“His hope of course is that Chabon will stop her—prevent her escape. He went after her, but was slow in getting started, due to Moncrief’s accident. Had it not been for the announcement of Bonaparte’s escape, she would have been stopped by the men Moncrief had stationed all about, but the French messenger told them of it, and there was so much excitement that she seems to have got away. We have heard nothing of her yet, nor of Chabon either.”
At one-thirty, Gentz, the Austrian Secretary to the Congress, passed by, and seeing the lights on, thought perhaps there was yet another party to be visited. “What is the word on Napoleon’s escape?” he was asked.
“It is a hoax,” he answered. “No such a thing. Not that it would surprise anyone, but it seems it was all a prank. Palgrave, you know, is not too bright. I daresay it is his notion of a joke. The English—they have a bizarre sense of humor.”
“They have no humor at all,” Kruger informed him. “They have excellent horses and good writers, but they have no humor, and no music worth the name.
“How is the Countess?” Gentz inquired. “Maria says she had an accident.”
“The doctor is abovestairs with her now,” Kruger replied.
Gentz soon took his leave. Not long after, the doctor came downstairs, wearing a frown. “There is no point putting a good face on it,” he began. “The lady is seriously hurt. The hip, I believe, is broken. At her age, you know, there is no saying it will ever mend properly. I don’t say she will be limited to a Bath chair, but the greatest care must be taken. No jostling, no long walks, no waltzing I fear. She will miss her dancing, poor old girl. I have given her a draft to ease the pain and put her to sleep.”
Kruger shook his head sadly, knowing what a strain the coming inactivity would be on his old friend. “She shall remain here with us till she is better,” he decided, not entirely happy.
“She must not be moved for a few weeks at least,” the doctor said. “She will be bedridden for a month. You must try to keep up her spirits. In such cases as this, the will to live—to recover—is of the greatest importance.”
“We shall do everything in our power,” Maria said. “It is my fault. If she had not come looking for me . . ." Maria began, but she was interrupted by some consoling objections from he
r father.
“How is Moncrief?” Kruger asked, before the doctor left.
“He is young and healthy. He will recover. He ought to have gone to his bed, but he would not take a draft. He got up and went galloping off somewhere. Well, not actually galloping. He went in his cousin’s carriage, but he ought to have been in bed.”
“How long ago was this?” Maria asked hopefully, thinking that perhaps the carriage was even then wending its way towards her.
“A few hours ago,” the doctor replied, dashing her hopes.
“I see,” she said quietly, then excused herself to go to tend her aunt’s bedside.
* * *
Chapter 27
One would think if a gentleman cared for a lady at all, he would be at some pains to discover, before three in the afternoon, why she had not attended a party to which she had accepted an invitation the night before. When the young lady’s aunt, besides, had hinted pretty strongly to him that some ill fortune had befallen her, when there was unfinished and unexplained business that involved them both deeply, the failure to pay a call can take on so strong a hue of offense that the lady might even develop the migraine. Certainly something was causing this thumping ache in Maria’s temple, as she sat with her Aunt Hermione, assuring her she would be up and about in no time, in that hearty, earnest manner adopted by well-wishers in the sickroom, particularly when they know they lie.
The doctor had just left, after performing some painful manipulations on the Countess’s hip. “Of course I shall walk again,” the lady admitted, “but as for other functions . . ."
“If you can walk, you can waltz,” Maria assured her.
“Waltz? My dear, that was not what I meant. That was not my meaning at all. I referred to—other functions.”