The General's Mistress (19 page)

I stared at him. The conventional pleasantries deserted me. “I don’t look like an angel,” I said. “I am too hard.”

Ney smiled, a wonderful, gentle smile that could have lit the room and banished February forever. “How do you know?” he asked. “Have you ever seen an angel?”

I hardly knew how to take it, and so I stood there stupidly, the appropriate compliments dead on my lips. “General . . .”

“Yes?”

I lifted a plate of trout terrine. “Do you like fish?”

He looked at the plate. “Yes,” he said.

“It’s very good. It has herbs of various sorts. Parsley, maybe. Or dill. I don’t know. I didn’t make it. I mean, I don’t usually cook. The cook does that. But it’s very good.” I was babbling and wasn’t sure how to stop.

“Good,” he said. He took the plate out of my hand and looked at it in bafflement. “I like fish very much. Trout is good.” I could see him visibly casting about. “I used to fish for trout when I was a boy.”

“Did you enjoy it?” I asked.

“Very much,” he said. “My brother and I fished. For trout. And other fish.”

“I’m glad,” I said. “I’m sure fishing is very pleasant.”

“It is,” he said.

He was smiling as if he could not stop looking at me, those warm blue eyes on my face as though I were some dream that had stepped suddenly to life. “Madame . . .”

“Yes?”

He lifted a tray of tarts. “What are these?”

“Onion tarts,” I said. “With port marmalade.” Now there was a plate of tarts in the air between us too.

“Are they good?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I’ve never had them before.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” I said. That was a lead line I knew what to do with. “Sometimes you don’t know if you’ll like something until you try it.”

His eyes widened.
Not a gambler,
I thought.
Everything he thinks he shows on his face, transparent as glass.

“Madame?” One of the footmen was trying to get my attention. “We have a slight difficulty in the kitchen.” The man almost had to grab my arm.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “There seems to be some crisis I must attend to.”

Ney bowed slightly. “Of course. Your servant, Madame.”

“I will—” I started to say.

“Please, Madame!” the footman said.

“In a moment,” I excused myself to Ney.

T
he kitchen was on fire. Someone had started a grease fire, and one of the footmen in a fit of helpfulness had thrown a dish tray full of dirty water on it, which of course had only spread the flames and broken all the champagne glasses that were being washed.

The cook had then smothered the fire with flour, covering almost every surface in the kitchen at the same time. It looked like something very large and white had exploded. The glassware was gone, and the raw chickens that were being roasted were now covered in flour. It took me nearly an hour to sort everything out, then clean up and get the flour off my dress. When I went back to the party, Ney was nowhere to be seen. The guests were beginning to go, and the party was winding down.

I went and stood by Victor at the door as we said farewell. “Is Ney gone?” I asked him.

Victor nodded. “He left a few minutes ago. Did you make his acquaintance?”

I took his arm. “Yes,” I said. He had not waited. But then, why should he?

“What did you find to talk about?” Victor reached for the hand of an officer who was leaving, and they exchanged farewells and pleasantries.

“Fishing,” I said. My heart was sinking. Which was ridiculous.

Victor snorted. “That’s about his speed. He’s a good officer, but he has the imagination of a side of beef.”

“Oh,” I said. Eyes like the sea and the face of an angel. The most beautiful woman in the world. Surely I was used to compliments by now, even ones delivered with less than the usual panache. It wasn’t what he’d said. It was the way he had looked at me. And I had talked about food. Because I was an idiot.

“Are you feeling well, my dear?” Victor asked.

I nodded. “Just a bit tired,” I said.

V
ictor did not get a command. For three days he paced around both our houses, alternating between silence and ranting. “The Directors are imbeciles,” he said.

“Yes, Victor, I know.”

“It’s all about flash these days. They have no stomach for the kind of hard work we had to do a few years ago.”

“Yes, Victor,” I said. I refrained from saying that a few years earlier they’d beheaded generals who displeased them, rather than simply not assigning them any troops.

Victor paced all the way down to the long windows that overlooked my flowering garden. “Since that puffed-up Bonaparte signed the Treaty of Campo Formio with the
Austrians, there isn’t anything to do this year. Half the army is in reserve in barracks.”

“Surely peace is a good thing,” I said, coming to the window. Ney was in camp at Lille. He had command of several cavalry divisions. I had seen all the posting lists that friends had sent Victor.

“Bah.” Victor scowled out at the gardens. “The Austrians aren’t serious. We’ll be at war again soon. And the English aren’t about to abandon the war with us, not when their navy has ours going and coming.”

I shrugged. “Perhaps a breather is good for us. Time to reform and time to train and replace. You always tell me how important it is.”

Victor leaned his forehead against the glass and said nothing.

“If it’s true that the peace won’t last, then you know that when war comes they will need more experienced generals. You simply need to make sure the Directors remember you.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “You can be patient, Victor. You’re clever and you never give up. And in the meantime, so many people will have a chance to heal. Think of all the thousands of children who are glad to have their fathers home!”

Victor smirked. “You are turning into a sentimentalist, my dear. How very sweet.”

I looked at him. “Victor, I wish—” I broke off.

“What, my dear?”

“I wish you were someone who cared.”

He turned and looked at me, his brow furrowed. “I do care, my dear. I care about you, and about my friends.”

“But not about people.” I put my hands against the glass, pressing against the rain-streaked panes. “You don’t really care if thousands of children are orphaned, or if people starve, or whatever happens. It just doesn’t matter to you. I can’t explain. I’m not saying this right.”

“I am a pragmatist, my dear. I don’t believe in God and piety and charity. It was entirely corrupt, if you remember, a scam for priests to live well while doing nothing.”

“Is this all there is, then?” I looked out at the rain soaking my gorgeous tulips. “Nothing matters and there is no reason for anything?”

He put his hands on my shoulders gently. “My dear, you are softhearted. If it will make you feel better to involve yourself with some respectable charity, then by all means do it. The Fund for the Orphans of the Army of the Republic is well thought of. You may make a donation of any size you see fit. Or even engage yourself in the production of their receptions or endless bazaars. There is no reason you can’t, if it will make you happy.”

“It’s not about my happiness,” I said. It was hard even to find words for the thing I sought. I leaned back against his shoulder. “Surely there is more to the world than my happiness.”

Victor slid his arm around my waist. “There’s mine,” he said.

T
hat night I dreamed. In my dream, I climbed from my bed and walked through Paris, through misted streets like the ones I knew waking.

The only thing that was different was that it was too fast. I had only to think, and I could hear the river running, see the lights shining from the windows of the Tuileries. It was early spring and the night was warm, with a mist rising off the Seine. I was alone.

“Why am I here?” I asked.

Nothing happened. A soft breeze pressed against my face.

“Why can’t I remember?” I whispered.

I walked along the quays. Ahead of me Pont Neuf stretched, cool and reflected in the water. I walked out onto the bridge.

A man stood at the railing, looking downstream. For a moment I thought it was my father—the same brown queue, the same breadth of shoulder. Then I realized that he wore the uniform of the Army of the Republic, a sash around his waist. I would have thought it was some friend of Victor’s if not for the odd shadow behind him, like folded wings.

“Why don’t I remember?” I asked.

“You can,” he said, and turned. He was young and tired, with a homely, ordinary face. “You can remember anytime you want to.”

I went over and leaned my elbows on the rail beside him. “Why?”

“Because you asked for the Gift of Memory. And I promised I would never take it from you again.” He leaned companionably beside me. “It’s good to see you.”

“You came with him, didn’t you?” I asked.

“With Michel, you mean? My namesake?”

I nodded. “I know him, don’t I?”

“What do you think?” He looked at me from under long lashes, pretty as a girl’s.

“I’m afraid to,” I said. “If I do, I will never be safe again.”

“Probably not,” he said cheerfully. “He does get into a lot of trouble.”

I looked out over the quiet water. “This river isn’t the Seine, is it?”

This time he grinned. “No.”

Indiscretions

V
ictor rattled around snarling at everything until I suggested that he should join Barras as his guide in a tour of our encampments on the Rhine. As was his habit, Victor wrote me almost immediately.

My dear,

I have reached Strasbourg in company of M. Barras, and our reception in this city has been exceptional. M. Barras is well known to them, and is esteemed as greatly by them as by me.

I am well, though the condition of the roads was somewhat worse than I had expected due to the torrential rains that plagued us. Because of this, I shall require my older pair of boots to be sent to me, as I do not wish to spoil the best ones.

I have received correspondence from my builder regarding the renovations to the kitchen that you and I discussed. I am unable to concentrate on these domestic matters at this time, so if you could contact him and relate to him all the particulars, my gratitude should be extreme. Also, I have ordered new table linens. Pray see what has become of them.