by Nikki Poppen
“Bonsoir, Monsieur. I am always glad to meet one of the general’s friends.” Cecile recovered her tongue and dipped a polite curtsy. She was gratified to note he was surprised as well by their chance meeting. Unwilling to prolong the encounter in case he mentioned their previous association, Cecile spoke rapidly, “Monsieur General, I am ready to begin.”
Alain found a seat on one of the silk-covered Egyptian-styled sofas lining the room and settled in to listen to the concert. He puzzled over seeing his heroine of the streets in such a sumptuous setting as Motrineau’s drawing room with its gilt-trimmed panels and Savonnerie rugs. Yet the general had engaged her in an intimate tete-a-tete which suggested he was well acquainted with her. Alain didn’t like to ruminate about just how acquainted the general was with her. He had difficulty believing the indignant creature he’d encountered in the streets that had balked at informing on neighbors would allow herself to become a general’s mistress. He discarded the idea quickly, recalling her embarrassment at the intimate attentions the general had shown her. Once he’d noticed her discomfort, he’d come to her aid and interrupted the conversation.
The opening measures of the music drew his attention, and Alain listened enrapt. By the end of her first number, he was convinced she was here tonight because of her musical talent. Liberated as French social life might be, Alain doubted it was so liberated that a high-ranking general like Motrineau would invite his friends to a concert given by his mistress. A sense of relief permeated his body and Alain found he could relax, at least as much as an Englishman disguised as a French soldier can relax in a room full of French officers. He gave his attention fully to the concert, mesmerized by the soft sway of blue satin skirts and the graceful curve of her bare arm as it drew the bow across the strings. She was beautiful, talented, and more mysterious than ever.
The concert ended to sincere applause. Groups on sofas and chairs moved off to take refreshment. Alain noticed Motrineau take the lovely Cecile by the arm and begin to move from group to group, circulating throughout the room. Discreetly, Alain attached himself to the group Motrineau was nearing.
“Your little violinist is a delight, wherever did you find her?” An officer’s wife cooed when introductions were made to Alain’s group.
Alain was embarrassed for Cecile, knowing it must feel awful to be treated like a prize won at a fair or like a novel trinket acquired in some shop. “May I steal your musician for a walk about the room? I know a little something about playing as well and I wanted her opinion.” Alain asked, taking the opportunity to dislodge Cecile from the general’s side.
“Of course,” the general acquiesced graciously. “You’re the new officer from Poland who has come to help with training the new cavalry recruits. If you like violin music that much, I’ll see to it that you’re invited to supper. I often have Cecile play at my supper parties. It’s good for the digestion.”
Alain nodded his thanks and tucked Cecile’s hand in the crook of his arm. It was a windfall that the general had extended the invitation to visit. Now he had a reason to visit again. It was a stroke of fortune that the visit would involve another chance to see Cecile. If the tenseness of her hand was any indication, she did not view it as a sign of good fortune.
“You don’t like me?” Alain queried casually while they walked the perimeter of the drawing room. “I thought you’d be glad of a chance to escape that insipid woman.”
Cecile gave a small shrug. “Not glad enough to think I owe you anything.”
“Of course not. I did not rescue you to put you under obligation to me. I merely wanted you to myself.”
“So you don’t know anything about the violin.” Cecile’s voice was haughty and superior at uncovering his ruse.
“I know I’ve not heard the instrument played quite as well as I heard tonight.”
Cecile cast him a wary glance. “Are all Polish men as glib of tongue as you, Monsieur?”
Alain laughed, the overloud sound drawing stares from nearby couples. “I cannot speak for all Polish men. But I would know why I have earned your scorn.”
“And I would know your name before disclosing such information.” Cecile retorted.
“My name is Alain Stanislawski.” Alain quickly supplied, falling back on the identity he had laboriously created for himself.
Cecile quirked a dark eyebrow. “Alain? Are there many Polish men with French names?”
“My mother was French. Now it is your turn. What have I done for you to dislike me?” They approached a set of French doors leading out onto a veranda. Alain deftly maneuvered through them, seeking the auditory privacy of the balcony. They could be easily seen by the others inside. The general could not reproach him for treating Cecile’s reputation lightly.
Cecile disengaged her hand from the young officer’s arm. “If you insist on knowing, it is because I cannot abide a liar.”
“When have I lied to you? We’ve only known each other for mere minutes.” Alain lowered his voice. “The encounter in the street was hardly long enough for you to start drawing conclusions about my moral fiber” Although he’d drawn plenty of conclusions about hers.
Cecile tipped her chin in the delightful way he was coming to associate with her. “That day in the street you did not tell me you were a soldier. You would have me believe that you were an ordinary man looking for the Panchettes. I am doubly glad now that I know your true identity that I shared nothing with you.”
“I assure you, I meant them no harm” He had been about to add `trust me,’ and realized at the last moment how absurd she would find that statement coming from a man whom she believed lied to her to obtain information. Instead, he said, “Why would it matter if I’d been in uniform or not? You work for a soldier.”
Cecile gave him a sharp look that said he’d stepped too far. “Monsieur, I must eat and pay my bills like anyone else. It was this or harlotry. If you’ll excuse me, I need to return inside and mingle with the other guests.” Cecile pushed past him, her silk skirts shushing against his white breeches, and disappeared inside.
Alain stayed awhile longer making polite conversation with other officers. His efforts to learn everything he could about French military were clearly worthwhile. It had been a divine stroke of luck that the general had been looking for an officer to work with the cavalry. He kept an eye on Cecile, watching her flit from group to group, always careful to avoid his group. A few single officers fawned over her hand. One of them pressed a small box into it when he thought no one was looking. But Alain had been looking and he’d seen it. He thought it might be jewelry.
When it was acceptable to leave, Alain made his farewells to the general and excused himself on the grounds of having exercises in the morning. He headed back to his temporary home on the Rue de Faubourg. The crisp night air cleared his head after the hot drawing room. The evening had been more eventful than he’d anticipated but in the wrong way. He’d not discovered the secretary yet. But he had discovered the delectable Cecile with her sharp tongue. Having found her, Alain was reluctant to let her go without knowing more about her.
Alain watched the French cavalry troops slowly and somewhat awkwardly conduct their flanking maneuvers in the training arena not far from General Motrineau’s mansion. The Prussian officer in charge of training new cavalry for Napoleon’s army looked askance at him as if to share Alain’s own sentiments about the woeful quality of the French horsemen.
The unsuspecting Major Frederick von Hausman was Alain’s superior for the duration of his masquerade. Alain found him to be an amicable orderly man of extensive military background. He’d been brought to Paris because of his experience with the elite Spanish riding school in Vienna. Major Von Hausman’s specialty was training horses based on his background with the Lipizzaner in Austria, leaving Alain to specialize in training riders. Fortunately, Alain was very comfortable in the saddle and the French cavalry so very uncomfortable that anything he offered them in terms of riding technique would be of use.
Next to him, Major von Hausman shook his head in despair. “Can they do nothing without trotting? They must at least be able to canter through their maneuvers. Whatever will they do on the battlefield?”
Alain nodded in agreement. “We must find a way to make a success of their strengths. If they can only charge at a trot, then we must recommend to their commanding officers that they only be used in large masses or after the artillery has cleared the way with heavy fire”
Von Hausman stroked his well-groomed graying beard. “There is wisdom in that, Captain. I will make a note of it in my report to General Motrineau. By Jove, I think you’re on to something. You’re a good thinker and a fine horseman yourself. I’ve seen you on horseback working with the men. Perhaps you might find a place with the Cuirassiers or the Grenadiers a Cheval? Such intense riding in combat is no doubt appealing to a young man of your obvious talents.”
Alain shrugged noncommittally. The Curiassers, also known as the Gros Freres, “the Big Brothers,” were the heavily armored arm of Napoleon’s Grande Armee. They could turn the direction of battle with the weight of their armor alone. The Grenadiers a Cheval were the Imperial Guard, the most elite of Napoleon’s mounted forces. “I prefer the Lancers,” Alain said with feigned pride.
Von Hausman laughed. “After defeating the British at Albuera, I don’t doubt it. Napoleon was so impressed with the Lancers heroic performance he’s converted several Dragoon regiments into Lancer regiments. I would like to talk with you some day about Albuera.”
“Of course,” Alain responded, although he would make sure the day for that discussion never came. He had no more been to Albuera than he had been to Poland. But the Polish Lancer victory had created an easy cover for infiltrating General Motrineau’s ranks. He’d been lucky enough to meet the real Captain Stanislawski in a tavern en route to Paris.
Captain Stanislawski was no paragon of manhood. He was a rabble rouser, quick to take offense and quicker to drink. After a few rounds of ale with Alain, the captain had taken exception to a comment made about the military by one of the other patrons. Weapons had been unsheathed, a brawl ensued and when the dust settled, Captain Stanislawksi lay dead. Alain saw the opportunity and took it. He had the uniform, the alibi, and the letter of introduction to General Motrineau’s staff. Alain couldn’t have planned it any better himself. There was always the concern someone would figure out he didn’t speak a word of Polish. Fortunately, Von Hausman didn’t either. They both spoke French as a second language, as did most of the military officers he’d encountered.
The major dismissed the troops for the day. Alain had the afternoon to himself. He hurriedly curried his mount and saw him stabled with the other cavalry horses. He cleaned up best he could at the pump in the arena courtyard, washing away the obvious layer of horsey smells and perspiration. A more thorough cleaning could wait until he got back to his lodgings on the Faubourg. He’d change into a fresh uniform and get on with his plans; spending the afternoon attempting to track down the elusive Cecile. He knew he’d see her that night since he’d been invited to the general’s for one of his dinner parties. It was a sign of how quickly Alain had risen in General Motrineau’s favor that he was being invited to the private supper party. He had not yet been able to find the secretary, but he had plans to unearth the secretary that night, which was why he wanted to see Cecile that afternoon. If his plans went well, he wouldn’t have time to devote to Cecile that evening.
“Harker, good to see you,” Alain said with relief, gaining the foyer of his temporary residence. It was always a joy to see Harker. The butler had insisted he go with Alain. So had his valet, Cranston, who spoke no French but knew how to turn out a well-dressed gentleman regardless. Alain had consented to bring them both under the condition they keep their mouths shut. He was glad for the decision. Hiring French staff would have been far too risky and it would have been exhausting to be masquerading as Captain Stanislawski day and night.
Their presence also helped keep up the pretense that he was a captain. The house on the Faubourg was comfortable and well appointed, as befit an officer of rank. Captains were expected to purchase their own uniforms and equipment as well as maintain a suitable social lifestyle according to their station in life. For instance, to be a Lancer, one must be a son of a landowner. It would not do for Alain to live in the barracks with only a batman.
“Lay out my clean uniform, Cranston, I hope to make an afternoon call,” Alain instructed. “On second thought, lay out some civilian wear.” If he did find Cecile, he didn’t want to put her off by reminding her of his association with the military.
The bell on the door jingled when Cecile stepped into the musty little shop. She disliked coming here but there was little choice unless she was willing to walk blocks out of her way to another pawn shop. She had as little time as she had money. Such a consuming walk was not possible when people waited on her. A list of errands she needed to run for the sick and elderly lay securely in the bottom of her basket. She had plenty to do before going to the general’s that evening.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle.” The fat, greasy man behind the counter greeted her, his permanent leer evident on his face. He came around the corner of the counter, wiping dirty hands on an apron that was dirtier still. “What can I help you with today? Business must be good for you. This is the second time you’ve been here the past week and half.” He eyed her with overt rapaciousness.
Cecile had deliberately worn her drabbest dress, a fusty brown muslin with not even a bit of lace for trim. The gown was dull and frumpy, doing nothing to hint at the figure beneath it. The dress was not having the effect she desired. She cleared her throat. “Monsieur, I have a lovely brooch I’d like to pawn” With utmost care, Cecile unwrapped the piece of jewelry a young admirer had given her two weeks ago at the general’s soiree. The brooch was in the shape of a peacock. Lapis lazuli made up the blue body of the bird. Semi-precious gems made up the elongated fanned tail. A tiny diamond chip served for an eye.
Without being a student of gems, Cecile had recognized immediately the piece was not a mere trinket. The price it would bring would leave something for her to save after she’d helped the others. Putting some money aside had become imperative. She’d saved a very small portion of the stranger’s money and she must endeavor to save some of the money from the brooch. The general’s talk with her at the soiree had been a stark reminder of the inevitable. He would leave one day and go back to the battlefield. Work was already scarce. Once the military left Paris, jobs would be more difficult to come by. She, like so many, depended on the military presence for all nature of jobs ranging from laundry to tailoring to vending.
The greasy man held the brooch in his grimy palm, hefting its weight. He lifted it to his eye, giving the impression of studying it. Cecile hid a smirk at his posturing. If this fat man with a penchant for lechery knew anything about gems, she was a monkey’s uncle.
“This is a nice bauble. I feel generous today; I will give you twelve francs.”
Outraged, Cecile snatched the brooch back, managing to avoid contact with his dirty palm. “Twelve francs! That is robbery, Monsieur. Single gems in this piece are worth more than that paltry price.”
The bell jingled announcing a new customer. Cecile hastily wrapped the brooch in her handkerchief. With a confidence she didn’t feel, she said, “I will take it somewhere else.” With luck, he’d take the bait. If not, she’d be wasting precious time walking across town because he’d called her bluff.
Greed glinted in the shopkeeper’s beady eyes. “Attendez, Mademoiselle. Perhaps we can strike a bargain.”
Radiating false bonhomie, the shopkeeper lumbered forward to greet the newcomer. Cecile kept her back to the customer. These were squalid surroundings and she did not want to be recognized, nor did she want to draw attention. No self-respecting woman visited a pawn shop. This was a place for harlots and the dregs. She refused to be mistaken for either. She had her pride. The customer must be a cut above the usual rabbl
e that came in there from the way the shopkeeper was carrying on. The customer spoke, and Cecile stiffened at the familiar voice.
“Monsieur, please finish with the lady. I am in no hurry.”
Captain Stanislawski, the Lancer officer. She would know his perfect French with the imperfect accent anywhere. Cecile couldn’t decide if she should pray he recognized her or not. She didn’t have time. The handsome officer came to her side before she could make up her mind.
“Mademoiselle, we meet again. Enchante.” He gallantly bowed over her hand. She didn’t remember offering it. He must have helped himself to it, Cecile thought as she tried to gather her wits.
Cecile managed a simple, “Good day, Captain.”
The captain looked from the shopkeeper to her and gave a deceptively harmless grin. “Is there a problem? Perhaps I can be of some assistance?”
Cecile took a moment to watch the slovenly man squirm when confronted with the impeccable manners of Officer Stanislawski. “Captain Stanislawski, I was just leaving. I had hoped to negotiate a fair trade with him for a brooch but we were unable to come to agreement”
Stanislawski assessed the situation instantly. “My pardon then, it seems nothing can be done here. Mademoiselle, if you will permit me, I can direct you to a jeweler that will give you a fair price.”
Cecile fought back a smile as the pawn broker began to sputter apologies. She was prepared to produce the brooch again from her handkerchief when Stanislawski waved away the fat man’s overtures. “No need, my good man. I appreciate your willingness to bargain, but not everyone has an eye for stones. I wouldn’t want you stuck with a piece you couldn’t sell.” From the arch of Stanislawski’s wheat-colored eyebrows, it was clear he thought the brooch would languish in the man’s dingy shop for lack of the right appreciative customer. “I bid you adieu.” With a gallant flourish, Stanislawski marched her out of the shop into the street.
