The General's Mistress (20 page)

I am your servant,

Victor Moreau

I
sighed deeply and put the letter in my reticule. I would deal with Victor’s builder after lunch. I was meeting Lisette and her theater friends in a café in the Palais-Royal.

The day was gorgeous. The sun was bright, and the weather warm. I took off my shawl and draped it over the back of my chair. Lisette and I were the only women. There was Jean Delacroix, the lead who played Gaius Gracchus, and two more young men, one of whom was wickedly funny. All through lunch he told anecdotes about notable persons who came to the theater, both the Populaire and the Théâtre de la République, which was much more respectable.

“Ah,” said Delacroix, “but we are more entertaining!”

“We have Talma,” the young man countered, “the very prince of the theater that he is. If only he didn’t mingle in politics so much! It makes the rest of the company nervous.”

“It’s just that he likes to be looked at,” Lisette said. “He’s as kind as the day is long.”

“He likes to be looked at, all right,” Delacroix said. “He’s posing for Lemot the sculptor now, nude as the day he was born, for a life-size marble, wearing nothing but a pair of manacles!”

“I’m sure that will be decorative,” I said dryly. “And pray tell me what the subject is? A Dying Gaul, perhaps?”

Delacroix grinned. “Thettalos Enchained,” he said.

I felt a shiver despite the warmth of the day. “Ah,” I said. “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Monsieur Talma yet.”

“You spend too much time in military circles,” Lisette said. “We can introduce you.”

“It must be very boring,” the young man remarked. “All those staid soldiers!”

“Not really,” I said.

Delacroix poured everyone more wine. “Some of them are as
good as players themselves. There was this fellow at Mannheim who took the town without a shot on sheer theatrics.”

Lisette laughed. “And how do you do that?”

“Well, he had some inferior number of men or something like that. But the fellow spoke German perfectly well, since he’s an Alsatian. So he dressed up in peasant clothes and went in by himself on market day to reconnoiter. Big redheaded fellow, must have looked like he belonged.”

“Ney,” I said, catching my breath.

Delacroix nodded. “That was his name. Do you know him?”

“I’ve met him once,” I said. “What did he do?”

Delacroix leaned back, obviously relishing his position as storyteller. “He wandered around looking at all the defenses and decided that he could never take the town by force. While he was chatting with people in the market, he saw a young woman with a lot of packages. She was heavily pregnant, and he gave her a hand with her purchases to a cart that was going back outside the walls. He asked her if she wasn’t nervous being outside the walls so close to her time.”

I could just imagine. His friendly manner and perfect German—who would suspect a thing?

“She said that, no, the commander of the garrison had been very kind and told her that if she needed the midwife, they would be happy to let her in at any time. So this fellow Ney took himself off, acting like some yokel, and made his way back to his men. They found him a dress and an apron and kerchief, and that night good and late he dressed up with a big straw pillow under the dress like a bump!”

I clenched my hand around the wineglass. It was damp from the condensation on the outside, the white wine still cool from the cellar.

“So he had fifty of his picked men wait, and then he staggers up to the gate moaning, with the big bump on the front end and a kerchief over his head. ‘Oh, help! Oh, help me! I need the midwife! My time is come!’ and carrying on in German in falsetto. They opened the gate, and as soon as they did his men rushed the guards. They took the city of Mannheim without a shot fired, with nothing more than a few bruises all round. He said the best way to win battles was not to fight them.”

The company laughed. “How very clever,” Lisette said.

“I love him,” I said.

Delacroix looked at me. “What?”

“I love him,” I said. My hand was perfectly steady on the wineglass and so was my voice. “Lisette, have you ever met someone and just known them? Irrationally, absolutely?”

“I thought you’d just met him,” Lisette said.

“I did,” I said. “I’ve only met him once. But I know him. I know him as if it’s been a thousand years. I should have said . . . I don’t know what I should have said, but I shouldn’t have talked about trout.”

“Trout?” Lisette said confusedly. “Why would you talk about trout?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “He was so overwhelming in person. I should have been witty and clever and amazing and unforgettable, and instead I talked about food and fishing.”

“Do you know anything about fishing?” Lisette asked.

“No!” I put my head in my hands. “I don’t even know why we were talking about fishing. And then the kitchen caught fire.”

“And he put it out with his bare hands?”

“No.” I rubbed my forehead. “I went to tend to it, and when I came back he was gone. But it had been nearly an hour, even though I’d told him I would be back in a minute, so I suppose he thought I was trying to get rid of him.”

“Is he that good-looking?” Delacroix asked.

“He’s not good-looking at all,” I said. “He has red hair and the most horrible sideburns that wrap around under his chin like he’s got some strange animal attached, and he’s built like the side of a barn, and his face is ordinary and you can see that his hairline is receding and he’s going to be bald, and he doesn’t even have a pair of dress shoes.”

“Then why . . .” Delacroix began perplexedly.

“I don’t know!” I said. “I don’t. It’s just that he’s him. I can’t explain. I know him. I’ve been looking for him since the day I was born.”

Lisette and Delacroix exchanged a look. “What about Moreau?” Lisette asked.

I took a quick gulp of my wine. “I can’t leave Victor. And he’s been wonderful to me in every way. I can’t wait until he goes out of town and go dashing off to Lille. It’s not fair.”

“And he pays the bills,” Delacroix said cynically.

Lisette shot him a quick glance.

“He does,” I said, “but he’s having such a terrible time right now. I can’t do that.”

“And you don’t know if Ney would want you,” Lisette said practically. “It’s better if you do nothing. Infatuations fade, or they turn into something real. But either way, it takes time.”

“You are right, of course,” I said.

T
hat night I sat down to answer Victor’s letter.

My dear,

I am sorry the weather was terrible for your trip! I hope you took the precaution of wearing your greatcoat and a scarf. I know you are susceptible to colds.

I am sending your boots as you requested, along with several pairs of new stockings. I have taken care of the table linens. The ones you ordered looked terrible when they arrived—the stitching was crude and the quality was not acceptable. I have ordered new linens, and I am sure they will meet your exacting specifications. They are not in the least gaudy, but they do have colored borders for summer dining.

I have not yet talked to the builder about the kitchen. He is on another job and his wife keeps telling me that he will call upon me, but it hasn’t happened yet. I shall have to make a pest of myself.

With greatest esteem,

Ida St. Elme

I
poured sand on the letter and shook it off carefully, then put it to the side to dry completely.

I could write to him,
I thought.
I could write and at least apologize for leaving him so precipitously. I could say the witty things I had meant to say. Or at least say something.

I picked up another sheet of paper and began to write.

My dear General,

I hardly know how to begin this. I obey my heart without searching for vain excuses. I do not know the art of disguising my feelings. Besides, there is something in the depths of my soul that tells me that if what I am doing wounds the conventions of mundane people, it may still please someone of your character.

I have only spoken with you once, and yet your image is graven on my heart.

Since I first heard your name, I have been one with you in my thoughts. I tremble at all of your perils, rejoice at all of your
triumphs, and applaud every recounting of your beautiful deeds.

My life is wonderful. I know that there are women who envy me. But I would joyfully renounce it all to be your companion in danger.

Respect and intimacy unite me with General Moreau. Does it carry the risk of making myself contemptible in your eyes to confess to you in a letter like this? But I don’t know how to fight the irresistible demands of my heart!

I have no other reason for telling you of the feelings that trouble my sleep except that you should know that I exist. That there is somewhere a woman to whom your glory is no less dear than it is to you yourself.

I will remember you until the end of the world.

Love,

Ida St. Elme

I
blotted the letter quickly, and put both of them in their envelopes. Tomorrow they would set off in different dispatch bags, part of my life and part of my soul.

Ten of Swords

V
ictor returned to Paris far sooner than I had expected, with not even a note ahead to tell me of his arrival. I was reading in my drawing room late one afternoon. I didn’t even hear his carriage on the drive, didn’t realize he was there until he opened the door.

“Victor!” I got up to greet him, but he backed away from my embrace.

His face was a study in cold fury. He withdrew a folded paper from his pocket. “Madame,” he said, “what is the meaning of this?”

“The meaning of what?” I asked, confused.

“So I assume your lover has not yet warned you of your mistake.” His jaw was clinched.

“What?”

“Don’t play innocent with me, Madame!” he shouted. “Grant me the respect my intelligence deserves.” He unfolded the paper and held it at arm’s length. “‘My life is wonderful. I know that there are women who envy me. But I would joyfully renounce it all to be your companion in danger.’”

“Oh, my God,” I said, grabbing the edge of the table behind me.

Victor stalked toward me. “I want you out of this house, Madame. Now.”

“How did you get that?” I said.

“You sent it to me, my dear,” Victor snapped. “And I assume
that you sent your lover the letter you meant for me. No doubt a much less passionate missive.”

“Victor, I can explain—”

“I imagine you can,” he said, stopping before me. “I imagine I would hear some very pretty lie. I imagine you are quite used to telling me lies, moneygrubbing little whore that you are.”

I reeled as though he had hit me. “Victor, I haven’t slept with Ney. I’ve never even spoken with him in private.”