The General's Mistress (28 page)

“Gantheaume? Are you coming?” They had finished whatever they were doing with the horse, and the driver was swinging up.

“I have to go,” René said.

“I know.” I held on to him for a moment. The transition was too abrupt.

“Find out,” he said. “What do you have to fear from knowledge that’s worse than ignorance?” He leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “Good-bye, pretty lady.”

“Good-bye,” I said. “Until we meet again.”

W
hen I got home, there was a note waiting for me from Lebrun.

Dear Madame St. Elme,

Have you decided whether or not you will take on the challenging prospect we discussed? If so, Walpurgis Night is the ideal time. I await your answer.

I am your servant,

Charles Lebrun

I
put the note down on the table and went to open the window to the street. From four stories below the sounds from a greengrocer’s stand floated up to me, and the fresh smell of herbs brought in from the country. The old plaster was cool against my hand as I leaned against the window frame. What did I have to fear indeed? I got out paper and quill and wrote to Lebrun.

Dear Monsieur Lebrun,

I will do the thing we spoke of. I should like to talk to you before Walpurgis Night so that I may know what to expect. I will call your angel for you.

Ida St. Elme

Walpurgis Night

I
went to Lebrun’s house before sundown on Walpurgis Night. He showed me the room and walked me through the procedure carefully, though I already knew my lines. He seemed nervous.

“There are only four clients,” he said. “Just four. You’ve seen Monsieur Husar before at scrying sessions, so there’s nothing to worry about from him. Also Leroy, the jeweler. He’s been here too.”

I nodded. “I know them both. It will be fine. Who are the other two?”

“Noirtier,” he said. “The one who always asks too many questions. And Bonnard, who is new, but he’s in banking and has a huge amount of money. I’ve heard he bought his way into Grand Orient.” He paced around the room. “I don’t need to tell you to be careful. And stay inside the circle. Don’t break the circle.”

“You’ve told me twenty times,” I said. “I’d be more worried about Bonnard wandering off, if I were you.”

This time my gown was sheer white muslin, with no trim or ribbons anywhere, and my arms were bare. It was more like a chemise than anything else, but if part of the charm of this little scenario was me in my underclothing, then that was well enough. I had certainly been seen in far less by some of Moreau’s guests on at least one memorable occasion.

Then Lebrun’s clients arrived, and I lost myself in the ritual.

There is a grace to it that you don’t feel until it becomes custom, until the movements and words within the circle of candles become second nature, until they are no longer lines that you have learned but things you know. This night was the first time it was that way for me. Perhaps because this was the first time that I was willing to believe. Or at least to forget that I tried not to believe.

The candlelight, the incense, the darkness of the room outside the circle drew me in, pulling me into that feeling of strangeness, of uncanny concentration.

“Spirit of Air, morning’s breath and dawn’s light . . . Spirit of Fire, noontide’s heat and day’s brightness . . . Spirit of Water, evening’s tide and twilight’s softness . . . Spirit of Earth, night’s peace and midnight’s skies . . .” The words blurred together, and I was no longer conscious of them as words, but of their meaning, the wheel turning and turning, dove-gray dawn to brightness, afternoon’s glare to evening’s purple shades, fading to midnight and the cool before dawn, turning and turning again.

Lebrun began chalking the floor around where I knelt on a black silk cushion. Greek, Hebrew, a little Latin. Symbols that didn’t match the words. I was glad that it was no demon he summoned. The circle he chalked was wrong. Why I thought that, I could not say. I had never seen one like it, but I knew it was wrong, that it would hold nothing that did not wish to be held.

—
It’s impolite,
something whispered amused in my head,
to invite a guest and tie him up.—

Unless he likes that sort of thing,
I thought.

—The sense of amusement was stronger.
If you want to speak with an enemy, you send a challenge, a summons to do battle. But if you want to speak with a friend, it’s much more polite to just send a note.—

I smiled.

Lebrun raised his arms and murmured a series of nonsense syllables. “Enochian,” he said aside for the benefit of the guests, “the ancient and secret language of the angels.”

Really?
I thought.

—
No,
said the voice beside me, still amused.
Angels speak whatever language you do, because they speak the language of the heart.—

You’re talking in my head,
I thought.
Are you real?
A moment of panic overtook me. I was like my mother. I was hearing voices, talking to people no one could see. I was going mad and—

—
Calmly,
he said. It was like a steadying hand on my shoulder.
Think calmly. If you are imagining me, good for you, putting a character and a voice to your own common sense. And if you’re not imagining me, then you can’t be going mad, can you?—

But I . . .

—
But how do you know I’m not a demon?
The sense of amusement was still there, as though he were smiling.—

Well, yes. I mean, if there are angels, are there demons?

—
Most certainly.
No amusement now, just grim agreement.
People are all too adept at imagining evil.—

Then how do I know that you aren’t one?

—
The same way you know if anyone else is evil or not,
he said.
See what I do. Judge me by my actions and the results of those actions. Don’t believe my words.—

Lebrun had come to the end of his lengthy speech. He stopped with an imperious gesture, pointing at me. I dropped my head as I had been told to.

He wants you,
I said.
He wants to talk to you.

—A hesitation.
You are frightened. And it is intense.—

Having you inside me?

—
Not quite the way you’re thinking.
There was the smile again.
Both more and less intimate at once. Perhaps it’s better if I talk and you just repeat.—

I suppose he felt my relief. “Yes,” I said aloud.

Lebrun tried not to grin. He looked solemn indeed. “Are you indwelling within this receptacle we have prepared, this Dove of a line of Doves, this perfect vessel?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Are you in fact the Archangel Michel, Commander of the Hosts, Bearer of the Flaming Sword?” Lebrun demanded. I saw one of our guests shudder in the background. I thought it was Bonnard.

“Yes,” I said.

—
I didn’t bring it with me,
he said.
It’s rather inconvenient, going everywhere with a flaming sword.—

You are clowning so I will not be afraid.

—
Yes.—

And there was a wealth of compassion in that word. I felt behind it the power tightly leashed, controlled and banked to nothing but the faintest touch of warmth, the kindness brought to bear at the very extremity. But for a moment, I knew the power was there.

—
Too much,
he said.—

I know.

“We have summoned you here so that we may know the fate of the armies of France, so that we may know the fate of our nation in war.”

—A shrug.
Everyone wants to know what will happen. If that’s what they want, they’d be better served by you than by me.—

I can’t say that,
I thought.

—
Very well, then. The paths of the future are determined by mortal actions. Why do you trouble the minions of Heaven with these questions?—

“Very well, then,” I said. “The paths of the future are determined by mortal actions. Why do you trouble the minions of Heaven with these questions?”

Lebrun looked at me with a faint frown. Why wasn’t I leading him? What did I think I was doing? “O Archangel,” he said, “can you not provide us with some wisdom? Tell us how our armies will fare?”

—
Since you ask nicely.—

I almost laughed.

—
And because I suppose we should keep your stock up, Dove of Doves.—

Don’t call me that,
I thought.

—
Which name shall I call you then? Ida? Charles? Elzelina? Or by the name of some other mask that you do not remember but that seems as close to me as the face you now wear? You do not remember me, but I remember you.—

I only want to know what will happen,
I thought.

—Isn’t that always it? A simple answer, then. Your armies are at peace, but peace will not last.

I covered my confusion and just repeated the last: “Your armies are at peace, but peace will not last.”

“That is no more than we know already,” Noirtier said from behind Lebrun. “Whose shall the victories be? Which general’s star shall rise? Bernadotte? Bonaparte? Moreau?”

I don’t want to know what will happen to Victor,
I thought.
Don’t tell me.

—A very gentle touch.
I can’t tell you what will happen. You understand that I do not know. But you know him very well. Do you think he will win the great victories of the age?—

No,
I thought.
Victor is too cautious. He trusts people too little. He’s good, and he’s professional. But his desire always exceeds his reach.

—
Say that, then.—

“It will not be Moreau,” I said. “His desire always exceeds his reach.”

—
And Bernadotte?—

I cast about mentally.
I have never met him. I have never laid eyes on him. How should I know?

—
He is a better courtier than a general. In the field, he’s not quite Moreau’s equal, good but not great. But he’s much better at making himself liked.—

“Bernadotte shall rise, but he is not the champion you seek,” I said.

—
And Bonaparte?
There was a stillness, as though he were testing me, carefully keeping me from hearing some thought.—

The chariot,
I thought unbidden,
the white horse and the black pulling in opposite directions on the tarot card, held in check by the Emperor’s reins.

—His touch, like a hand at my back, like some long-forgotten moment in childhood with my father.
Say it, then, Elzelina.—

“Bonaparte holds the black horse and the white in check, and guides the chariot,” I said.

Noirtier’s eyes were greedy. He almost pushed Lebrun aside. “Who else?”

The names came from my lips, but I did not know them. “Masséna. Desaix. Augereau. Lannes.”

Noirtier’s eyebrows rose. “Lannes?”

—
And you shouldn’t be surprised, Noirtier,
he said behind me, or at my ear, not quite inside me but like a whisper, like the not-quite-touch of skin on skin when you feel the ghost heat but not the touch.
Trust you to sensualize angelic presence,
he said, amused again.—

I don’t mean to,
I protested,
it’s just . . .

—
How you perceive,
he said.
You are who you are, and you sense
this way. There is no error in it. Passion and death are sides of the same coin; blood and birth and sex cannot be separated.—

The gateways of life,
I thought, as though I were remembering something, something I had known before.
The gateways of life and death. They are sisters, Death and Love.