The Barbed Crown

Chapter 7





In sum, I rather enjoyed being a conspirator, since there no longer was much of a conspiracy to attend to. Yet our idyll grew grim as the execution of the royalist plotters approached, and our claustrophobic lives complicated my relationship with Catherine, who became evermore familiar and imperious.

“Ethan, I don’t understand your choice in marrying a slave,” she challenged once when we were alone together. “Your wife is intelligent, yes, but wholly unpresentable.”

“That’s as silly as it is ungrateful. Napoleon and I captured Astiza to be a translator, and she helped get me inside the Great Pyramid. Good swimmer, too.”

“It may be too late for annulment, but certainly you should explore divorce. The revolutionaries have made changing wives as easy as changing shoes.” The cheapening of marriage was another royalist lament, although they took advantage of the laxity as quickly as anyone. Since the revolution, a couple living together was as likely to be unmarried as wed, and few brides came to the altar as virgins. Census takers estimated that up to a third of the children in Paris were illegitimate.

“On the contrary, Comtesse, I’m desperately in love with my wife. You may recall I came to avenge her.”

“That was for honor. I’m talking about standing. Your faithfulness is entirely out of step with the times.”

Certainly the era was licentious. A former priest named Banjoir had organized saturnalias under the guise of his newly invented religion. Audiences wore masks to watch naked actors in the play Messalina. Police confiscated pornography from the Barabbas Bookshop to share with their own dinner guests. Even with a swelling police force, Paris still had ten thousand prostitutes. It also claimed six thousand writers, the consensus being that the scribblers were considerably less useful than the trollops.

“Bonaparte is trying to reestablish propriety.”

“Bah. He fornicates like a sultan. And love has nothing to do with marriage. A wedding is a contract of rights, property, and reproduction. Sleep with whomever you want, but marriage requires a strategy as careful as a military campaign or the seeking of court favor. It’s true you had limited prospects, but an Egyptian serving girl? My poor American, I shudder at the advice you were given.”

“I didn’t have advice at all. She’s gorgeous.” Why did the comtesse obsess about my marriage? Ladies do find my company irresistible (given enough time, and convincing) but I was not about to swap wives. Catherine seemed to be prying us apart when we should all be pulling together. But then the female heart could stampede heedlessly, I’d learned from the romance novels, so maybe the girl simply couldn’t help herself.

“Beauty can be rented,” Catherine said.

“And she’s wise,” I defended doggedly. “Astiza knows more than any royalist I’ve ever met.”

Catherine was oblivious to my comparison. “Hire expertise. Blood, you must marry.”

“You’re living on our charity while insulting my wife?”

“I’m helping you face the truth. She is wise, since she married a handsome rogue who also claims to be an electrician, a Franklin man, an explorer, and a soldier. You’re common, but a commoner of an interesting sort. It’s only your judgment that is faulty. A proper comte would make Astiza a courtesan, deny paternity of any offspring, and cast her off before she begins sagging. I entirely understand her determination to follow her husband to France; it’s unlikely she’ll do better. But you need to marry breeding if you’re ever to rise.”

“Which you could supply,” I said dryly.

“Certainly not.” The comtesse sniffed. “It would be as foolish for me to marry down as it was unwise for you not to marry up. Only in an exigency do we cooperate in this hovel. We’re pretending to be democrats until natural order is restored. You cannot aspire to me, but you need a powerful father-in-law. I’m saying all of this to be helpful.”

“It’s you who doesn’t understand marriage,” I countered, truly annoyed now. “It didn’t matter that Astiza had no property, and I no title. Have you ever looked at the half moon and seen the dark wedge that blocks out the stars and completes the sphere?”

“We’re talking astronomy now?”

“That was me before my wife. Astiza came in and began to lighten my dark half, day by growing day, as I came to love her, until the moon was full—representing not one of us, mind, but both of us combined. I fear that’s a completion you’ve yet to understand.”

A shadow passed then; she looked stricken for just an instant at my jab, and even vengeful. There was some wound on her that I didn’t know. Then she gave a short laugh, forced gaiety. “And you’ve yet to understand how big your moon could be with the right person. Or listen to realism.”

The odd thing was that Catherine could be as charming as she was maddening. She actually warmed to her governess role, playing with Harry when we went on errands. “He listens to me better than you do.” She also confessed that she regretted that her crusade to restore the monarchy and avenge her parents was postponing her own marriage, household, and children. I’d actually catch her with a look of pensive sadness at times.

The comtesse could also be a witty dinner companion, sharing gossip of fallen aristocrats struggling desperately for new positions. She’d compliment as deftly as insult, and sought my wife’s suggestions of classic books to buy besides romances. Not that Catherine actually read such books; she simply enjoyed dropping the imposing-sounding titles into conversations.

She was mercurial toward me, disdainful at one moment and flirtatious the next. Catherine found an excuse to touch me when my wife wasn’t around. She’d propose that we go together to the arcades of the Palais Royale to listen to Parisian gossip and street speeches. Even when I kept saying no, she somehow appeared on my arm. When I was a widower, she’d treated me like the plague; when convinced I was married, she found it amusing to tease me.

An example is a time I came home when Astiza and Harry were at the fruit market and Catherine called for help from the kitchen. I found her bathing in the tub in a linen shift, as is the female custom. The fabric was transparent from the water, however, one arm only half concealing her breasts.

“Fetch me more hot water, Ethan,” she commanded. A golden necklace and bracelets accentuated her near nudity. A sheet lined the tub to insulate her from the metal.

“I’m not a maidservant, and this is inappropriate.” Not that I turned away.

“You don’t want me clean?”

“I don’t want to watch you get that way.”

“Then you’re a very peculiar man.”

I should have fled, but found it more enjoyable to debate the issue. “Comtesse, I’m happily married, as you’ve sourly observed. This is inappropriate.”

“And I’m not embarrassed at our lack of privacy after so many weeks together. I’ve heard your lovemaking with your wife and applaud it. What a stallion you are! Now, don’t stint me the pleasures of a bath.”

I didn’t miss the compliment. “I’m just saying you can bathe yourself.”

“Ethan, we’ve no maid because as spies we must be careful. That requires expediency. Please, warm water!”

So I poured some in, pretending not to look and looking plenty. Her nipples were pinker from the heat of the water, and there was a flush around her neck, tendrils of hair curling there. I retreated in embarrassment while she laughed.

But the comtesse also had a morbid interest in the guillotine, which is how she and I came together to watch poor Georges lose his head. There was a great slop of blood, the fiery color exciting the crowd, and a mix of cheers, curses, and weeping.

“If the Corsican is confirmed emperor, the whole world will be like this,” Catherine muttered.

“Not necessarily,” I said, being the judicious sort. “He’s strict, but not cruel like Djezzar the Butcher, or Omar the Dungeon Master, or Red Jacket the Indian, or Rochambeau the Slave Hunter. The useful thing about knowing horrid people is that they put everyone else in perspective. Even Napoleon.”

“We have to stop him from being crowned.”

“What chance do we have of killing him?”

“Not killing. Turning people against him. Breaking the spell he’s cast. We can’t mount a coup, Ethan, but we must mount an embarrassment.”

“But how, Comtesse? Word is that he’s seeking no less than the pope to crown him this winter. He’s determined to win over your class.”

“Then we have to act before winter, and before our money runs out. You’ve a reputation for being clever. Live up to it.”

“And your job?”

“To goad you.”

We turned to go, the crowd milling. She tugged my sleeve and nodded toward a gigantic dark-clad spectator.

“He’s been watching us instead of the executions. It’s the policeman Pasques, I think, as strong as he is tall. You’ve heard of him?”

“No, and nor do I want to. He looks big enough to cast shade for a picnic.” Had Harry seen something after all? This fellow was somber, with a great mustache that drooped to his chin. He had a dark suit, a cloak like raven wings, a battered and dated tricorne, and the bulk of a dray horse.

“Quick, to the left. We’ll melt into the street crowd.”

But other police materialized to block that way, and the giant proved surprisingly adroit. He used his muscle to part dispersing spectators like a buffalo through corn. Quickly, he loomed over us. “Monsieur Ethan Gage?”

“John Greenwell, of Philadelphia.”

“No. You are Gage of Egypt and Marengo, Mortefontaine, and Saint-Domingue.”

“You’re entirely mistaken.” My heart was hammering, given the chop of the blade we’d just seen. “If you’d please stand aside, monsieur, we’re late.”

He shook his head. “The notorious American is too well known and remembered to remain unnoticed. We’ve been following you since your arrival in Paris and puzzled only over how little you’ve seemed to accomplish.”

This was unsettling and insulting to boot. “‘We’?”

“The police ministry. Do you know that your household has led us to three royalist cells?”

Catherine gasped, and I struggled to pretend calm. “I’m sure you’re confused.”

“And I’m sure that Police Councillor Pierre-François Comte Réal, administrator of northwest France, requires a meeting. You’d be wise to cooperate, since you’ll meet regardless

and he has ways of forcing conversation.” The other police surrounded us.

“He couldn’t send an invitation?”

“Your invitation is I.”

“This lady plays no part in this.”

“On the contrary.” He inspected her, his gaze lingering longer than it had to. She looked flattered and fearful.

I sighed, wishing I’d brought a weapon. “You’ll tell my wife what has happened?”

“Tell her yourself. Your wife and son, monsieur, are already in custody.”

Not again. “But wait—didn’t you say I’ve accomplished little?” I’m used to arguing incompetence. “Why would the councillor want me?”

“He has a present for you.” Pasques shrugged, as if this was as incomprehensible as my own sorry performance as a spy.

“A gift?”

“From Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“From the emperor?” While I echoed him with my own stupid questions, the comtesse looked at me with surprise and suspicion.

“Yes. From a man who gives nothing without expecting something in return.”