Chapter 48
Her abigail?” said Eugène-François Vidocq when Sebastian stopped by the headquarters of the Sûreté nationale that evening. “You want me to find Empress Joséphine’s abigail? Whatever for?”
“I have a theory,” said Sebastian, his gaze drifting around the policeman’s unusual office.
It was a small, messy room, crowded with bureaus and tables piled high with note cards and folders and a strange variety of objects—wigs and broken-down hats, crutches and canes, tattered old coats and jars of theatrical makeup, which Sebastian realized the ex–galley slave must use for his famous disguises. From the office’s dirty windows he could see a cramped courtyard and, beyond that, the delicate flying buttresses of Sainte-Chapelle, the magnificent thirteenth-century chapel that dated to the time when the Palais de la Cité had been the residence of the Capetian Kings of France.
“A theory,” said Vidocq, his voice flat. “A theory about what?”
“Malmaison is not on the way back to Paris for anyone traveling up from the south of France. And yet for some unknown reason Sophia Cappello stopped there briefly just a few hours before she was killed. I think she went there to get something, and I’m hoping Joséphine’s abigail can help us understand what that was.”
Vidocq frowned. “You think she went there for the talisman, do you?”
“It’s seeming more and more likely. And yet according to the housekeeper, the Queen of Holland and her brother effectively ransacked the château after their mother’s death, looking for anything and everything they could sell. So why would it still have been there?”
“And that’s what you’re hoping the Empress’s abigail can tell you?”
There were several things Sebastian was hoping the woman might know, but all he said was “Perhaps.”
The head of the Sûreté nationale studied him intently for a moment, then shrugged. “I can try.” He fished in one of his pockets and came up with a tobacco-stained clay pipe. “And no, we haven’t managed to track down either the fiacre driver or your fille publique,” he added when Sebastian opened his mouth to ask just that.
“You don’t find that odd?”
“Yes, I find that odd,” snapped Vidocq, reaching for a pouch of tobacco.
“They could be dead. Or in hiding.”
“That had occurred to me.”
Sebastian watched the Frenchman tamp down the tobacco in the pipe’s bowl, then reach for a taper. “There is one other thing.”
Vidocq didn’t even bother to look up from lighting his pipe. “Oh?”
“It’s possible one of the servants out at Malmaison—most likely the housekeeper, but perhaps a housemaid named CeCe or even one of the gardeners—notified someone of Sophia Cappello’s visit. It might be worth your sending someone out there to question them.”
At that, Vidocq did turn. “That would imply someone was anticipating her visit to Malmaison.”
“Yes,” said Sebastian.
The policeman’s eyes narrowed. “You’re hiding something from me.”
“Nothing I know for certain.”
But Vidocq did not appear convinced.
Sunday, 12 March
They awoke the next morning to the peal of dozens of church bells calling the faithful to Sunday mass. Sebastian was forced to wait until late in the afternoon before trying to approach Hortense Bonaparte.
She was in the entry hall of her imposing hôtel particulier, arranging an assortment of lilies and ferns in a mammoth bloodred vase that stood on the large, round marble-topped table in the center of the space. When the footman opened the door to him, she looked up and smiled. “Bonjour, monsieur le vicomte. Do come in.”
“Madame,” he said with a low bow.
She was wearing a high-waisted gown of delicate white muslin sprigged with embroidered bouquets of pastel pink, blue, and yellow flowers, and her smile widened as she picked up one of the large white calla lilies lying on the table before her and added it to the arrangement. “I hear you paid a visit to my mother’s château.”
“And how did you hear that?”
She reached for another lily. “Did you think I would not?”
“It’s a lovely place,” he said noncommittally.
She glanced over at him. “And now the rooms are empty and the gardens are an atrocious mess. I know. Everyone who sees it reproaches me for it. But if you knew how much money my mother poured into that château, you would not judge me so harshly.”
“I do try not to judge.”
She flashed him a saucy smile. “Even if you don’t always succeed?”
“Perhaps.” He watched her fingers work quickly to make subtle, sure alterations to her arrangement. “You didn’t tell me Sophia Cappello stopped by Malmaison on her way back to Paris, but I take it you knew. Did Madame Sorel send the gardener’s boy to tell you? Or was it CeCe?”
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not. And yet even though you knew, you kept that knowledge to yourself.”
“Did I? How . . . remiss of me.”
Sebastian studied her beautiful, composed lying face. “I assume Dama Cappello was there looking for the talisman. So tell me, did she find it?”
“How would I know?”
“You know.”
She was no longer smiling. She picked up a fern frond and added it to the vase before taking a step back to study the effect.
Sebastian said, “Is that why you went to see her the day she arrived back in Paris, to demand she give you the talisman? I thought at first that she had brought you a message telling you that Napoléon was leaving Elba. But you already knew that, didn’t you? Were you afraid she meant to keep the amulet from him?”
She gave one of her airy little laughs. “What a ridiculous notion. I told you: I’d heard Dama Cappello was unhappy with the state of the gardens. That is all.” Hortense placed the last lily in the vase with studied care, then turned to face him, the flounces of her embroidered gown twirling girlishly around her ankles. “Why exactly are you here this afternoon, my lord?”
“Actually, I’m wondering if you could provide me with the direction of Bernadette Agasse.”
A frown marred her pretty forehead. “Who?”
“Bernadette Agasse. She was your mother’s abigail.”
The frown cleared. “Ah, yes, of course. Bernadette. I’ve heard she found a new position, but I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you with whom. Je suis désolée.”
He didn’t believe her, and she confirmed his doubt by not inquiring into the reason for his interest in the woman. Instead, her eyes narrowed with what looked like genuine amusement.
She said, “I understand Kitty Wellington has left Paris, escorted by your father, the Earl.”
“Yes,” said Sebastian, wondering where she was going with this.
The smile spread to her lips. “The British Embassy—the Hôtel de Charost—used to belong to my sister-in-law, Pauline Bonaparte. Did you know?”
“So I had heard.”
“And did you know she insisted that your Duke of Wellington pay her for it in louis d’or?”
“Yes, I’ve heard that, as well.”
“Do you know why?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Pauline wanted the gold to send to Napoléon so he could hire the ships he needed to carry his men to France. In other words, your grand Duke of Wellington obligingly—and, I must say, rather foolishly—provided the gold that funded Napoléon’s return. Ironic, is it not?” She tipped her head to one side, her eyes widening. “You don’t believe me?”
“Oh, I believe you,” he said.
After all, it was London’s bankers who’d loaned the infant United States the money to make the Louisiana Purchase, which literally sent British gold pouring into Napoléon’s war chest.
He kept his gaze on her face. “Tell me this: If Sophia had the Charlemagne Talisman, do you think she would have given it to Napoléon?”
Hortense shrugged. “Her lover was one of the Emperor’s most trusted marshals; why would she not give Napoléon the talisman?”
“Perhaps because she was tired of people dying?”
The deposed Queen of Holland gave a faint shake of her head. “You think that if Napoléon returns to his throne, he will immediately embark on a quest to reconquer all of Europe? He won’t, you know. All he wants is to govern France in peace . . . if the Allies will let him.”
They won’t, thought Sebastian.
But he didn’t say it.