The Orchid Affair (39 page)

Colin signaled to the waitress, who detached herself from her conversation at the back of the bar.
“Deux café crèmes,”
he instructed.

“Et deux cochons!”
I chimed in. I pointed at the glass.
“Ceux-là? Les cochons de marzipan? Merci.”

Colin gave me a squeeze. “You found your pigs.”

“One is for you,” I generously informed him. “What did you do today?”

Did you speak to your sister?
I wanted to ask, but didn’t.
Did you call your solicitor? Did you hire a hit man to take care of your stepfather and/or Mike Rock, aka Micah Stone?

“This and that,” said Colin. We settled ourselves at a rickety table towards the back of the restaurant. “The film crew is scheduled for next month. Fancy coming to stay?”

“As your buffer zone?”

“As my interpreter. Your friend Melinda will be with them.”

“Classmate,” I corrected. A blackboard behind us advertised a dinner prix fixe. It looked rather good. My stomach rumbled again. I smiled gratefully as the waitress put our coffees and a plate with two marzipan-covered pigs down in front of us. “What about Serena?”

Colin’s expression didn’t change. “She won’t be there.”

There was something in the way he said it that effectively cut off future questions. I inched one of the pigs closer to me, idly breaking off its curly marzipan tail, turning it into a little blob of marzipan goo between my fingers.

As much as I hated to admit it, I couldn’t entirely blame Serena for what she had done. It wasn’t just the lure of a partnership in the gallery—that bit I still found vaguely scuzzy. What I could sympathize with was her need to emancipate herself from the protective affection of her one-and-only sibling. It was sweet, but it was also limiting. The way she had chosen was a crummy way to go about bit, but these things are never pretty. Anyone who has ever faced off against a parent knows that.

Serena wanted to live her own life? She had my blessing. But in doing so, she had hurt Colin. She wasn’t my concern; he was. He needed cheering up.

“Look at it this way,” I said encouragingly, leaning my elbows on the table. “Having the film crews there could be kind of entertaining.”

“Like a pleasant interlude on the rack,” said Colin glumly.

“Can I get a side of thumbscrews with that?” Okay, so it wasn’t much of a smile, but I still got a smile. I took a big gulp of my coffee. “View it more as your own personal slapstick comedy opportunity. Shakespeare? To rap music? It’s bound to be absurd. And you can make them pay through the nose if they damage anything.”

Colin perked up at that. “They will, won’t they? I’m not letting them into the library, though.”

I made a fake laughing noise—part chortle, part evil chuckle. “Don’t worry. I’ll see to that.” Micah Stone and his crew were getting anywhere near those manuscripts over my dead body. They were mine, all mine.

Well, maybe not exactly mine, but I was the one with the use of them at the moment.

Colin lifted his coffee cup to me. “All for one?”

I clinked my cup against his, sloshing foam. “And one for all.”

One for both? There were only two of us, after all. Two. As my childhood
Sesame Street
record had informed me, it was a much better number than one.

What would have happened if Colin hadn’t had a girlfriend with him this weekend, or any girlfriend at all? I didn’t like to think of how alone he would have been. I supposed he did still have his great-aunt, but that wasn’t the same. In multiple ways.

“I nearly forgot.” Colin drew something out of the pocket of his Barbour jacket. It was one of those incredibly deep pockets, designed to hold ammunition and small animal carcasses. Or, in this case, a slim, red-bound book. “We forgot this at the gallery last night.”

The cover looked very red against the green Formica tabletop. So that meant he had spoken to one of them. Who was the most likely to have picked up the book? My money was on Serena.

“That was stupid of me,” I said. “I would have hated to have lost it. Did Serena find it?”

I could see Colin trying to think of a way to dodge. Fundamentally, though, Colin is too honest to lie well. He stonewalls, but he has trouble getting around direct questions.

“She recognized it from drinks,” he said shortly. Nodding to the book, he said, in a very obvious attempt to change the subject. “Didn’t you promise me love poetry?”

Right. There’d be time enough to get the details out of him later. We had—I stopped and thought it out—two whole days left in Paris. Two days just for us. There would be plenty of time for grilling Colin, for love poetry, and for all of those couply things I hadn’t thought we would have the chance to do.

Right at that moment, though, I had more important things on my agenda.

“Love poetry later,” I said firmly. “In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a pig with your name on it. It’s oink-oink good!”

Colin regarded me dubiously. “You’re not going to start calling it a love pig, are you?”

I had recently made him watch
How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days
. He had been very alarmed by the “love fern.”

“That’s
cochon d’amour
to you.”

“You are coming to Selwick Hall next month, aren’t you?”

My free hand covered his. “How could I possibly miss it? All for one, remember? But now …” I lifted the pig, adopting a truly obnoxious singsong. “You know you want me… .”

The crinkles came out around Colin’s eyes. “Bizarrely enough, I do.”

Historical Note

On January 26, 1804, after being taken before a military commission and sentenced to death, Jean-Pierre Querelle broke under police questioning at the Abbaye Prison. He confessed that a plot was afoot to kidnap—or assassinate—the First Consul and restore the Bourbon monarchy. The Royalist arch-agitator, Georges Cadoudal, had landed in France months before and was already in place in Paris, ready to set events in motion.

The plot in which André Jaouen is embroiled was lifted from a genuine intrigue, although I simplified some elements and changed others for the purpose of this novel. Uniforms, like those Laura discovered in the Hôtel de Bac, were prepared so that conspirators, disguised as members of the Consular Guard, could nab Napoleon as he traveled to one of his country estates. The conspirators were in negotiation with a high-ranking member of the military, General Moreau, in the hopes that the army could be brought over to their side. A member of the royal family—either the Comte d’Artois, King Louis XVIII’s younger brother; or the Duc de Berry, Artois’s son—was to be brought to Paris to be placed at the head of the uprising.

In my version, de Berry sneaks into Paris to lead the revolt. In real life, neither de Berry nor Artois ventured across the Channel. In his biography of Joseph Fouché, Hubert Cole opines that “the refusal of either [Artois or de Berry] to venture into France had caused the delay in the scheme and spoiled whatever chance of success it may ever have had.” Elizabeth Sparrow, in her
Secret Service: British Agents in France, 1792-1815
, reports that Cadoudal went to the coast to meet the expected prince and, upon finding him lacking, reputedly cried, “We are finished!” Without a proper figurehead, the plot rapidly unraveled. The arrest and interrogation of Querelle and his fellow conspirators, Le Bourgeois and Picot, were as I described. Cadoudal’s servant, le petit Picot (not to be confused with the other Picot), was arrested on February 6, when he ventured out to fetch provisions; General Moreau was arrested on February 15; and Cadoudal on March 9, after a dramatic high-speed chase through the streets of Paris. As described, the agitated First Consul took drastic measures. On February 28 (the night of André’s make-believe party), the Governor of Paris ordered the gates of the city closed and all vehicles searched. The Senate, in the general spirit of panic, suspended trial by jury. According to Sparrow, 356 people were eventually questioned and arrested in
L’Affaire Georges, Moreau, Pichegru, d’Enghien
.

The investigation of the Cadoudal affair was officially in the hands of Louis-Nicolas Dubois, the Prefect of Police. Fouché, formerly Minister of Police, had fallen out of favor with Napoleon in 1802. The First Consul closed the Ministry of Police, although, as a parting gift, he allowed Fouché to retain the 1.2 million francs from the Ministry’s coffers. Fouché used these funds to build an even more elaborate system of informers, setting himself up in direct opposition to the Prefect of Police, André Jaouen’s putative boss. Although Fouché was technically out of power and his Ministry of Police closed, he played a large role in the Cadoudal affair, even though the investigation was technically being run by Dubois at the Prefecture.

I tried to capture the flavor of the Fouché-Dubois rivalry by having André serve under Dubois at the behest of Fouché, working at the Prefecture but reporting to Fouché. To minimize confusion and avoid extra explanation, I retained Fouché in his old position as Minister of Police. Fouché was officially reinstated as Minister of Police later that same year—a role in which he continued for the duration of Napoleon’s ascendancy. For more about Napoleon’s legendary Minister of Police, I recommend Hubert Cole’s
Fouché: The Unprincipled Patriot
, as well as the relevant chapters on “Fouché’s Police” and “Fouché the Man” in Alan Schom’s
Napoleon Bonaparte
. Fouché’s contemporaries, such as Josephine’s lady-in-waiting, Mme. de Rémusat, and Bonaparte’s secretary, M. de Bourrienne, had a great deal to say about the Minister of Police in their memoirs from the period. One can read Fouché’s side of the story in his own memoirs, entitled
Memoirs of Joseph Fouché, Duke of Otranto
, although these, published after the Restoration, ought to be taken with several grains of salt.

Unlike the conspirators, who were, with the exception of André and Daubier, taken from the historical record, my artists and actors were all composite characters, based on a combination of contemporary personages. Jaouen’s wife, Julie Beniet, was inspired by Élisabeth Vigée-Lebrun and Marguerite Gérard, among others. For a glimpse into the life of a female painter in Paris, I recommend Gita May’s
Élisabeth Vigée-Lebrun: The Odyssey of an Artist in an Age of Revolution
and Mary D. Sheriff’s
The Exceptional Woman: Élisabeth Vigée-Lebrun and the Cultural Politics of Art
, as well as Vigée-Lebrun’s own memoirs. For artists more generally, I relied upon Thomas Crow’s
Painters and Public Life in Eighteenth-Century Paris
and Warren Roberts’s
Jacques-Louis David, Revolutionary Artist: Art, Politics, and the French Revolution
. Moving from artists to actors, fellow devotees of old swashbucklers will have guessed that the escape via Commedia dell’Arte troupe was inspired by Rafael Sabatini’s classic novel of the French Revolution,
Scaramouche
. I tip my hat—and my keyboard—to him.

Many real places were pressed into service for this novel. The Hôtel de Bac was based on the building that now houses the Musée Carnavalet; Daubier’s studio was modeled on Victor Hugo’s apartments in the Place des Vosges (formerly known as the Place Royale); and the gallery in which Colin’s mother’s party was held can be found just around the corner from the Musée Victor Hugo. The Musée Cognacq-Jay was taken from life, as was the exhibit
Artiste en 1789
, featuring the work of Marguerite Gérard. I added on an extra “s,” stuck in the (pretend) oeuvre of Julie Beniet, and moved the exhibit from 2009, when I was fortunate enough to view it, to 2004. Beniet’s portrait of her husband was based very closely on Gérard’s
Portrait d’Anne-Louis Girodet-Trioson
, which leapt out at me as the spitting image of André Jaouen. My understanding of André, in the context of his legal profession and political leanings, was deeply influenced by David A. Bell’s
Lawyers and Citizens: The Making of a Political Elite in Old Regime France
.

Last but not least, I can attest to the veracity, and the tastiness, of those marzipan pigs. Many were eaten in preparation for this novel.

Acknowledgments

This book was a long time in the writing, which means that I have even more people than usual who deserve a shout-out. The first and biggest thanks goes to my mother, who not only bore and raised me, but also submitted to being dragged through Paris and beyond to every Napoleonic monument/exhibit/tenuously related location, even with a broken wrist. Without you, I would never have found my Hôtel de Bac, tracked down the original location of the Abbaye Prison, or discovered those two-euro bottles of wine (perfect with marzipan pig). Thanks, Mom!

Thanks are also due to my little sister, for untangling the usual plot snarls; to Claudia, for long walks in cold weather; to Ryan and Lara, for Tuesday Coffee Club; to James, for keeping me saner than usual through Book Deadline Panic Month™; to my usual suspects (Liz, Emily, Alison, Abby, and Weatherly, that means you!) for always being there via cocktail or phone call; to Eve and Sebastian O’Neill, for being even more adorable than Gabrielle and Pierre-André; to Tracy Grant, Tasha Alexander, Michele Jaffe, and Sarah MacLean, for being not just amazing writers but equally amazing friends; to Andrea DaRif, for being the world’s best and most patient co-professor; to Lady Jane’s Salon and its founders, for providing a forum for romance writers and readers; and to the Badminton Club of NYC, for letting me take out my aggressions on the birdie rather than my characters.

While I was writing this book, I had the great privilege of co-teaching a seminar at my alma mater on the origins and development of the Regency romance novel. To my students in the Yale class, hugs and thanks. Your enthusiasm was a weekly reminder of how much I love this time period and this genre.

Finally, thank you to everyone who came to a reading, popped by my Web site, or visited the fan page on Facebook. Your commentary and feedback are a constant source of inspiration (and procrastination).