Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro,Bill Fawcett

MV02 Death Wears a Crown (32 page)

BOOK: MV02 Death Wears a Crown

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Victoire shook her head in exasperation, and the black pearls swung and bounced against her neck. “You may tell the Emperor he might have been killed for his show of courtesy to Desirée.”

“It wouldn’t be permitted,” said Berthier firmly.

“And how was it supposed to stop?” Victoire asked. “What if Pichegru had allies other than Desirée and the English?”

“What do you mean?” Berthier rounded on her. “What are you saying?”

“Only that there are others who might seek the Emperor’s fall for their own advantage. Desirée is not the only ambitious person who might hold a grudge against Napoleon.” Victoire looked around the gathering and at last picked out the popinjay figure of Talleyrand. “For example. And he favors uniting with the English.”

Berthier nodded, his face somber. “There is nothing to indicate he participated in any way.”

“We have made inquiries, but there have been no discoveries,” Vernet confirmed.

“This does not surprise me,” said Victoire dryly. “But I cannot dismiss my assumptions, just for that.”

“But keep them to yourself,” warned Berthier. “And the things you know about Desirée.”

Victoire regarded Berthier critically. “I hope you will inform the Emperor that I think he is placing himself at risk, permitting this to remain unresolved.”

“You might tell him yourself, if you wish, as he intends to speak with you when he arrives,” said Berthier with satisfaction. “Doubtless your husband will relinquish one dance to the Emperor?”

Vernet nodded at once. “If it is his request, then certainly I will offer no objection,” he said formally, concealing the rush of pride he felt, knowing that such attention to Victoire at this event would add much to their social standing and increase his own status as well. “An honor for you, my love,” he added to Victoire.

“Only if the Emperor has improved his dancing skills,” said Victoire before she could stop herself, recalling the last time she had attempted the polonaise with Napoleon.

“Madame,” Berthier admonished her.

“My dear,” Vernet said.

Victoire smiled, looking from her husband to Berthier and back again. “Oh, I am fully cognizant of the compliment he offers. But my toes will pay the price.”

“Madame Vernet,” protested Berthier.

But Vernet was grinning. “Isn’t she refreshing? Most women would simper and pout—not my wife. I’m a very fortunate fellow, Berthier. Doubly so, because I have the sense to know it.”

Berthier retrieved his snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket and inhaled a pinch of it, holding his handkerchief at the ready in case he should sneeze. “Felicitations,” he said, sounding as if he had a head cold. He waved to Inspector-General Suchet and bowed himself away from the Vernets.

“There are times I think Napoleon takes too much advantage of Berthier,” said Vernet softly. “The man is so loyal that he is often put in a bad position.”

“Berthier is not the only one to have such trouble,” said Victoire. “It seems to be the Emperor’s gift—and his curse—to inspire profound affections in others.” She went with Vernet into the ballroom and took their place not far from the little orchestra of fifteen musicians Murat’s wife had hired for the occasion.

“They say that all the music tonight is to be by French composers,” said Vernet, passing on what he had been told that morning by Fouche.

“Do they include Lully,” Victoire asked, not expecting an answer. “He was born in Florence.”

“Mehul has composed a new piece for this evening,” Vernet told her. “To honor the Emperor and his family.”

“Very wise,” Victoire approved. She watched the door as more guests arrived, and after a short time she said to Vernet, “I wish sometimes that I were capable of prescience.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Vernet.

“Because ... I do not trust all this grandeur,” she said slowly, selecting her words with care. “I cannot rid myself of the feeling that there is more at stake here than anyone supposes.”

“There is the Empire,” said Vernet with conviction. “And I share your feeling.”

Whatever Victoire might have answered was lost in a sudden blare of trumpets and horns accompanied by a rumble of timpani. Everyone in the ballroom moved back against the walls and stood waiting as the fanfare continued, becoming an entrata for the Emperor and Josephine, falling silent only when the Emperor and his wife appeared in the doorway.

They came in with Caroline and Murat, Napoleon at his most affable, pausing to speak with various guests and to remark on the wonderful entertainment being offered. As he reached the Vernets, he observed, indicating her gown, “Is it a sea-nymph, Madame Vernet, or one of those Greek storm goddesses?”

“It is a flattering color, or so I hope,” she answered as she rose from her curtsy.

“Well, you are in good looks, Madame Vernet. I congratulate you. We will talk later.” With that he gave his attention to Vernet. “When am I to see your report of the incidents during my Coronation?”

“I have already presented my notes and observations to—” Vernet began, only to be cut off with an abrupt gesture from Napoleon.

“Not those, you fool, the ones you made for yourself. If I want to see the official records, I need hardly come to you for them. Make me a complete copy of your private notes and deliver them to me yourself.” He looked over at Murat. “See that he does it, will you?”

“An honor,” said Murat.

Napoleon passed on and was shortly exchanging a few remarks with Berthier.

“He will not like much of what I have to say,” Vernet whispered to Victoire as they watched Napoleon make the rounds of the ballroom.

“But he asked—” Victoire reminded him.

“Yes. Yes, I know,” said Vernet, softly.

Dancing began almost as soon as Napoleon went into the buffet room, the orchestra striking up a gavotte to begin the evening; very much in the tradition of the royal court of thirty years before.

“Would you like to dance yet?” asked Vernet as the couples took their places on the dance floor.

“Not yet, not if I have to be ready for Napoleon.” She listened to the slow, stately strains begin and added, “I trust he won’t choose the polonaise. He is a disaster at it.”

Vernet could not wholly conceal a chuckle. “If you wish, I will refuse permission for such a demanding dance.”

“No, thank you,” said Victoire with counterfeit primness. “I know my duty and I shall do it.”

In any event, Napoleon selected a cotillion, though he announced that his set would not change partners during the movements, which left most of the rest uncertain of how to proceed. He then paired his wife off with Vernet, put Victoire’s hand through his arm, and took her onto the floor. “I have been led to understand you are not wholly pleased with the way this recent contretemps has turned out,” he said as he faced her to begin the first figure.

Victoire wanted to look to her husband on her left, but controlled the impulse in order to answer the Emperor. “I think that your sentiments have influenced your judgment,” she said, taking care with the first pass so that Napoleon would not tread on the flounce of her skirt.

“I had better inform you that I am adamant on this point, Madame Vernet. There is no question of involving Bernadotte.” He missed his timing on the balance and swore softly, not even bothering to ask her pardon.

“A good thing,” said Victoire, ignoring his mistake, “for Bernadotte is not involved. It is his wife who appears to have aided Pichegru and the English. If there are others, I have not yet discovered them.” She made sure to say it quietly but she could sense the disfavor her remark engendered.

“I will trust to your confidence, Madame, and take comfort in knowing that her participation will never be made public.” He said it cordially enough but his orders were clear.

“You are accepting a grave risk,” she pointed out as she tried to keep pace with the rhythm of the orchestra and Napoleon’s less regular beat.

“I have never turned from danger, Madame, least of all from cowards who hide behind the dedication of others. I respect the English assassin more than Pichegru, I assure you.” His bow was graceful enough but at the wrong moment in the dance. “He was good enough to spare you, and for that I must thank him.”

“I certainly concur,” said Victoire.

They went on for a few measures until Napoleon gave a sigh of exasperation. “This is useless. Accompany me off the floor, Madame, and we will settle our business together without this endless distraction.” He did not wait for her to accept his offer, but drew her to the side of the room. “I have had a long talk with my brother-in-law. Murat informed me of your circumstances.”

“In what sense?” asked Victoire in an unguarded way. She discovered that this bald announcement annoyed her and she decided she would have to have a few sharp words with Murat later.

“To be blunt, in regard to your need for money. I did not know you or your husband were in such straits, Madame Vernet. No one had mentioned anything about it until this morning.” He shook his head. “It does not please me to have my trustworthy officers at hardship. That leads to jealousy and compromise, and ... well, it does neither the officer nor me any good.” He regarded her in silence. “Well?”

“It ... it is true that we do not have much money. I have some funds left in trust, but given Vernet’s social obligations, it does not stretch as far as I would like.” She hated admitting so much, but she did not flinch as she said it.

“Small wonder,” said Napoleon, pulling on his lower lip. “I have given orders to Fouche to increase Vernet’s salary, in recognition of his superior service. It is to be an annual pension of twenty thousand francs.” He said this as if he expected a flurry of trumpets to accompany the announcement.

Victoire stared at him. “Twenty thousand?” she repeated, for the amount was nearly treble what Vernet now received.

“I can’t have my brother-in-law underwriting my officers forever,” said Napoleon with a faint smile.

For once in her life, Victoire could think of nothing to say.

This satisfied Napoleon immensely. “Oh,” he said, as an afterthought. “Fouche informs me that he can discover no link to Talleyrand in the conspiracy.” He took her hand, half-bowed over it, not quite kissed it, and then strode away, paying no heed to the notice he attracted.

Victoire stood by herself for a short while, and then blinked as if coming out of a dream. She saw Josephine curtsy to Vernet, then hurry after Napoleon, leaving Vernet standing by himself in the middle of the cotillion. Regaining her composure, Victoire went to his side and picked up the dance where the next pattern began.

“What did you say?” Vernet demanded as the music came to an end.

She repeated what Napoleon had told her about Vernet’s pension.

“We’re set for life. Lord God of the Fishes,” said Vernet, his eyes glazed as if he had been struck a punishing blow instead of rewarded so well.

“Precisely,” Victoire agreed, and walked off the floor on his arm before passing on her other, more personal, good news.