and yanked at the stunned grand chamberlain, snapping the chain holding his coronation robe and tumbling him out of it like a log. I was stealing a bundle of fabric that probably cost more than I’d earn my entire life.
“We’ll still be friends, I hope,” I told the dazed diplomat without irony. I hate powerful enemies. Then I ran.
The sentries by the doors were shouting, and everyone in the rear of the church had turned to witness our scuffle. I dashed for an alcove at the rear of the cathedral, my goal a rainbow-glazed window that dappled massive pillars with squares of light. Pasques was crawling in pained pursuit, his look murderous.
“Ethan, wait!”
Running to intercept me was Catherine Marceau. Her arms were wide and breasts high, as fetching as she was dangerous. “You don’t understand! This is our chance to work together! All must be with Bonaparte!”
I stopped, the cloak in front of me like a shield. “You work for men who strangled the comtesse you pretend to be? Betray my family? Make me a fool?”
“I work for men who will bring reform to Europe. I work so revolution need never happen again. We’re idealists, you and me.” Her eyes pleaded, their seduction calculated.
“Where’s my wife?” Soldiers were running toward us.
“I’ll help you hunt her down.”
“Then escape with me, instead of my coming with you.”
Her eyes looked past my shoulder, and I could hear thudding boots and the clattering belts of the sentries. She sadly shook her head and lifted the pistol I’d given her when we entered Notre Dame, pointing it at my belly. “You’ll see reason from Temple Prison.”
“You won’t shoot me. You’re in love with me.” Even I knew this was ridiculous; she’d never love anyone but herself. But I was curious to see if she’d hesitate.
She pulled the trigger.
It snapped uselessly, as I knew it would.
I’m an idiot about women, but I had enough experience to never entirely trust the charms of the Comtesse Marceau, and certainly not with a loaded pistol in a crowded church. I’d substituted its powder with pepper.
Catherine sneezed.
Talleyrand’s robe became a club to clout my would-be assassin out of my way, my taking satisfaction from the way she shrieked as she tumbled across an altar and fell hard on the space behind. Not gentlemanly, but then she was no lady. I leaped on top of the marble.
Muskets went off, bullets pinging off stone. One punched through a shepherd made of stained glass.
“You don’t know what you truly believe!” she cried from beneath me.
“I believe in family.” I held the cloak in front of me, lowered my head, and dove. Fragments flew like hurled jewels.
I tumbled down to the ground outside the cathedral and rolled to my feet. I was in the archbishop’s gardens. The crowds for the coronation were to my left, escape to the right. I ran into the alley I’d vaulted across with Harry.
“Sacrilege! Blasphemer! Thief! Traitor!”
I’ve been called worse.
I threw on Talleyrand’s robe and trotted to the gate at the alley entrance. A sentry was facing the crowd in the plaza beyond. “Quickly, you fool,” I snapped in imitation of the arrogant. He swung the gate out of habit, and I was through before he had a chance to think. Beyond was a flicker at the edge of a milling mob hoping to catch a glimpse of the crowned emperor. A man had stuffed his hat in a greatcoat pocket in order to lift his daughter to his shoulders. I snatched it.
I jammed on the hat, ducked my head, and felt Talleyrand’s secret papers rustle against my ribs. When I jumped into a waiting dignitary coach, where I found its driver asleep, I kicked him.
“The Tuileries, you snorer! Take the Left Bank to avoid the crowds!”
He fell out the other open door in fearful shock, glimpsing my robe more than me, and scrambled into the teamster’s seat. A great shout at the horses and with a jerk we were off, spectators yelling as they jumped out of the way. I looked out the window for Astiza and Harry but saw nothing. We crossed the Petit Pont and swung downriver. At Napoleon’s new iron pedestrian bridge that crossed to the Louvre I leaped without announcing my departure, leaving Talleyrand’s robe inside but keeping a bundle of his papers and the hilt of the broken sword. The documents might be useful for either bargaining or fire starter. The coach rolled blithely on, the coachman hunched as if braced for his