My Bonny Light Horseman

by L. A. Meyer

  I hand him his linen and fuss about getting him dressed.

  "There are your trousers ... Here, let me help you with your shirt. There. Good. Hurry, now, your friends will be waiting for your account of your night of love with la petite gamine Américaine. Let me tie your tie ... There. What a fine young man you are, I do hate to see you go."

  Yes, I am sure there will be many stories you will tell of your last glorious night here in Paris with a petite gamine, none of which, alas, will be true, but, ah well, of such stuff are personal legends made.

  "But I was...," he protests, as I smooth out his coat.

  "But, nothing ... you were truly magnificent! A veritable stallion!" I exclaim, batting the eyelashes and letting a blush rise in the cheeks. "I shall never forget it. Quel amour! Quelle passion! But now I must be off to Mass to atone for my sins." I tapped the top of my dresser and gave him the big eyes. "A little something for the collection plate, Hercule, hmmm?"

  He nodded and fumbled for his billfold and soon a twenty-franc note appeared on my bureau.

  I thanked him for it and got his confused self out my door in very little time after that. At the threshold I gave him a big kiss on his cheek, a quick pat on his rump, and sent him happily, I think, on his way. I am pleased, for I do like to keep my customers satisfied.

  As the coach rumbles on, Jean-Paul takes a small notebook from his pocket and pencils in a few words concerning what I have told him about Captain Belmonte.

  "A useless little bit of information, no?" I ask, peering at what he has written.

  "No, all information is useful."

  "So I have done my job, then?"

  He sets his jaw. "Yes, you have done your ... job."

  "Good," I say. "I have served my country and I made a tidy twenty francs last night as well."

  He says nothing to this, but a knot of muscle begins working in his cheek. Although I like to play this cat-and-mouse game with him, I find it ... well ... touching that he cares for me. I know that, for my part, I like him very much. Very much, indeed.

  "Come now, my lad, you must cheer up. It is a lovely day and I intend to enjoy it," I say, turning to him and slipping my hand beneath the lapel of his jacket till I can feel his ribs under my fingertips. "Are you ticklish, Jean-Paul? Let's see. Coochie-coo."

  I give him a bit of a tickle and he, shocked, grabs my wrist. "Stop that!"

  "I'll stop when I see a smile on the face of the stern secret agent Jean-Paul de Valdon." I purse my lips and blow a puff of my breath into his ear, and, in spite of himself, he smiles.

  "That's much better," I say, and withdraw my hand from his chest. "Now tell me what we are going to do today. After lunch, of course. I want it to be something exciting."

  He thinks for a moment and then says, "Do you like horse racing? They are running this afternoon at the Hippodrome. Would you like to go?"

  I let out a whoop and commence bouncing up and down. "Oh, that would be just the thing! Yes, oh, yes, Jean-Paul, by all means, let us go!"

  He leans his head out the window and to the coachman, "Armand. L'hippodrome de Longchamp."

  "Oui, M'sieur," says Armand and turns the carriage at the next intersection.

  A racetrack! And I've got twenty francs burning a hole in my pocket! Hooray!

  Chapter 27

  Yes, I lost all my twenty francs at the track, but it was worth it, for I had a glorious time. The Hippodrome de Longchamp was all green and beautiful and it seemed the entire beau monde of Paris was there in all their fine carriages and fine clothes and fine women and fine men. I spent each race at the rail screaming at the poor horse I had bet on, progressing from French—Allez, allez, Numéro Trois!—to Standard English—Oh, do hurry up, Number Three!—before lapsing totally back into the Cockney of my youth—Move yer arse, ye lazy bugger!

  My cheering of the unfortunate Number Three resulted in nothing more than his finishing dead last, but Number Nine in the fifth race did win for me and when he crossed the finish line victorious, I leaped on Jean-Paul, threw my arms around his neck, and peppered his face with kisses. I won, Jean-Paul! I won! Some of the Quality standing nearby raised their cultured eyebrows at my behavior, but Jean-Paul lifted his own brows and gave them the Gallic shrug and announced that elle est Américaine and all around us nodded in silent understanding. Ah, une sauvage. But I did notice with some pleasure that his arm was tight about my waist.

  The races after that chipped steadily away at my winnings, but still it was a wonderful time. There was wine and snacks and pageantry and spectacle—all the things I thrive on. Yes, all in all, I conclude, a fine, fine day.

  On the carriage ride back, I fell asleep against Jean-Paul's shoulder, which I counted as good, if not very elegant—I do hope my mouth did not fall open as I slept, but it probably did, and in that case I further hope that I didn't drool on him. But yes, to the good, for I need my rest to gather every bit of strength I can muster. Because tonight, Marshal Hilaire de Groote, General of the Imperial Guard, comes to collect me.

  The crowd is seated, the limelights are lit, the music swells, the curtain rises, and Les Petites Gamines de Paris dash out to whoops of laughter and applause and launch into the first routine of the evening.

  The curtain comes down and it is intermission. A little powder and rouge here and there and we go out to the bar area.

  De Groote is on me in an instant. He grabs my hand and kisses it. "The wolf will prowl tonight," he says, with a low chuckle. "And he is in fine form. At what time should he scratch at Little Red Riding Hood's door?"

  "At eleven, Monsieur le Loup," I whisper and put my hand on his.

  "Will you have something to drink, my dear?"

  "Champagne, Monsieur, s'il vous plaît," I simper.

  "Garçon!" he barks out. "Du champagne pour la belle jeune fille. The best!"

  That la belle jeune fille remark makes my blood run cold for a moment, but no one here makes the connection and I relax.

  "Bien" He picks up my hand and kisses the back of it. "You will not regret this, ma petite pêche"

  The little peach dearly hopes the same.

  There are other men, quite good-looking young men who look like they'd like to talk to me, but a glare from the old Goat that clearly says This one's mine sends them off to other girls.

  He gives me a slight, very slight, bow and says, "Till tonight, then."

  I give a modest curtsy, and he turns away to join some men clustered about the bar. He says something I cannot hear, and there are gales of laughter and glances my way.

  I take a sip of my very excellent champagne and look about the room and am mildly surprised and pleased to see that Monsieur Jean-Paul de Valdon is in the room tonight.

  I go up to him and take him out to the foyer, out of de Groote's sight.

  "You have honored us with your presence tonight, Jean-Paul," I say. "Why?"

  "Just keeping an eye on you is all," he says. I notice that he glances in de Groote's direction with a certain amount of ill-concealed loathing. He should watch that, I'm thinking. He is a good boy, but he is really not a very good spy.

  "Everything is going as planned. He will arrive at my room at eleven o'clock tonight," I say, giving his arm a squeeze. "I will let him in and I shall get the information. But tell me—why does he fear his wife so?"

  "He has the rank, but her family has the money. He gambles and is deep in debt."

  "Ah. That is good to know. Here, have a sip of my champagne. It is very good, Jean-Paul."

  He does not take the glass. He reddens and says, "How can you do what you are about to do?"

  I hold up a finger and shake my head. "Forbidden subject, Jean-Paul. I do what I must to help my friends and my country. I'm sure you would do nothing less."

  At that his face goes rigid and he says, "Non. I am a traitor to my own country."

  "No, you are not. You are against Napoléon, not France herself. Keep that in your mind. Know that I would not keep company with a base traitor, one wh
o sells out his country for money or position. Know that, Jean-Paul." I give him the big moist eyes and his arm an extra-hard squeeze on that one.

  He says nothing for a moment and then..."For all that you are, I think you are a finer person than I."

  I don't get to respond to that, for the music is starting up again. I take his face with a hand on either side and put a kiss upon his lips. "Do not forget that you are a good man, Jean-Paul de Valdon. Adieu."

  With that, I bound back to the stage, back to the dressing room, and we ready ourselves for the second set.

  At the end of the evening, when we all bend over and flip up the skirts, I give my tail feathers an extra wiggle. That is for you, Jean-Paul. I hope you enjoy it.

  ***

  The performance ends, the costumes are shed, good nights are said, and I am back in my room, making preparations.

  First, I take off my clothes and get into the white bustier I had bought back in London. It looks like a frilly piece of female undergarment with much lace and tiny ribbon bows and such, but I see it also as a quite formidable piece of female armor. Although it only covers from the top of my chest—well, middle of my chest, actually—down to my crotch, it is made of good, strong cloth and laces securely up the front. It will take a very determined male to peel this thing off.

  Then I put my outer clothes back on. And wait.

  A little after eleven, there is a scratching at the door. I open it and there stands a large man in the uniform of the Imperial Guard, wearing a bearskin hat and a wolf's mask.

  It is not uncommon for men to wear masks at night in Paris, or Berlin, or London, or any city in Europe—to hide identity, keep off noxious odors, fend off airborne diseases—but still it is a shock to see him thus, towering over me like some monster in all his overpowering maleness.

  "Come in, Sir," I quaver. "And make yourself comfortable."

  He strides in and whips off his cloak, then his mask, and throws them both on the bed. His face is already red from much drink, and I count that as good. I close the door behind him, but I do not lock it, nor do I put in my wedges.

  He wastes no time in getting down to business, putting an arm about my waist and burying his face in the nape of my neck, his lips working their way around my throat and toward my face.

  "Please, Sir," I say, wriggling out of his grasp. "The night is long, life is short, let us enjoy our time together, slowly and with the deepest passion. Let us share some cognac and then I shall undress and we will be as one."

  He lets me go and I pour out two glasses from Bottle Number One. I do need the information he has to give—his tongue must be loosened, but not deadened. Not yet, anyway.

  He drinks deep and I pretend to take a sip. Then I nip behind the dressing screen. I judge the time, waste a few minutes in pretending to mess with my clothes, and then strip down to my bustier. I throw my cloak about myself and then step out from behind the screen.

  "I hope you will like me, Sir," I say, as I slowly take off the cloak.

  "Exquisite!" he gasps, his hands in front of him as if in prayer of thanks for a great gift. "Comme une petite poupée!"

  Like a little doll? The little doll does not feel particularly exquisite, especially since she is sweating like a little pig, but we must get on with this.

  "Please sit, Sir, in the chair. It would give me great pleasure to sit in your lap and be gently petted."

  He throws himself into the chair and opens his arms, his face radiant. I refill his glass and give it to him. He drinks, and then I put myself in his lap. I take off my hairpiece and I know that without it I look all of twelve. It seems to please him.

  He immediately hugs me to him and claps his lips on mine. I try not to be too rigid, but it is hard. I liked the feel of Jean-Paul's little mustache this evening when I kissed him good-bye. It was soft and tickled my upper lip in a pleasant way. I do not like the feel of de Groote's massive whiskers. They are rough, and I swear I can smell the soup he had tonight still in them. I must not show my disgust. Steady now, girl.

  "You are the finest thing I have ever seen! I shall keep you forever!"

  I pull my face from his and say, "You pronounce yourself my great protector, but I do not know where you will be tomorrow or the next day. When the Grand Army moves, you will go with it, and I will be left alone, friendless, without my good Marshal de Groote to care for me."

  "Ah, do not worry, little one. The Army does not begin to move until next week. We have plenty of time! Be a good girl and let us get you out of this thing." He begins to unlace the top of my bustier, and I let him do it.

  "But where will you go, my dear Général, will it be far from me? I could not bear it to be too far," I simper. He has gotten the lacings about halfway undone.

  "What?" he says, his voice now thick with both drink and opium. "Oh. We go to Germany to kick the shit out of those cabbage-eating Prussians. After we cross the Rhine, we're going to head for the western plateau of the Saale River. We've got to kill them before they get us. Enough of that. Let's talk about you. Ah, you are so beautiful ... you..."

  There is a commotion outside my door. It flies open and a very angry Madame de Groote stands there with two pistols in her hands.

  Pistols! Mon Dieu! I thought this would be the usual pointed fingers and accusations! I guess I don't know French women very well.

  I roll out of de Groote's lap as she fires. The bullet plows into the wall right next to her husband's astounded head.

  "You pig!" she screams. "Consorting with whores! Divorce! Yes, divorce, right after I kill you!"

  She fires again, but I don't wait around to see if her bullet finds its mark. I leap to my window and am out of it, clinging to the drainpipe for my own dear life.

  There is much noise above as I crawl down that pipe, run across the street, and climb up the one that will take me to the window where Jardineaux's men watch me each night.

  When I get there, I rap on the window and yell, "Open up, damn it! Let me in!"

  The window opens and I slide in.

  "What the hell?" Both Jardineaux and Jean-Paul are there, and I don't know which one said that, but I suspect it was the big man.

  He is at the window. "Look at that! The police are coming! Damn! You've blown this whole setup completely apart! Damn!"

  I hear whistles and shouts outside and go to the window where I see the police pour into 127, rue de Londres. After a while, Madame Gris is taken out screeching, with her hands bound, and is put in a police wagon. A smile works its way across my face. Good for you, you old sow.

  In a little while, two men come out bearing a large man on a stretcher. It is entirely possible that Marshal de Groote will not be joining the march north.

  I cross my arms across my chest and start to shiver. "I did not do this. Madame de Groote did it. I was an innocent bystander. Here is the information: The Grand Army will begin moving next week. They will leave Boulogne, and after they cross the Rhine, they'll head for the high plain west of the Saale River."

  Jardineaux brings his gaze upon me. "Right" is all he says, and then he is out the door, probably to try to repair the damage to his network.

  I turn from the window.

  "Jean-Paul. I do not have much on and I am cold. I am very, very tired, and I wish desperately to go to sleep. There is a bed there, and I am going to lie in it." I go over to the bed, yank back the covers, and crawl in. Ahhhh...

  Jean-Paul watches me get in but stays at the window, looking out. There is a long silence, but after a while he says, "You do not know this, Jacqui, but I hold a commission as a lieutenant in the Fourteenth Division of Light Cavalry in Marshal Murat's Corps. From the information we have gotten by your efforts, and from others, we know that Napoléon's Grand Army is preparing to move. I will move with them. A system of couriers, riders, will be set up to carry what intelligence I might gather back to Jardineaux and the Royalist forces in ... London."

  I am now wide awake. I know how hard it is for him to say the name of
that city he has been taught from birth to hate, and that in naming it he is branded a traitor to his own country. I remain silent and he goes on.

  "I will leave the day after tomorrow to go to the Army. I will join my unit." He pauses. "It all seems so silly, sometimes. We all know that Bonaparte will march north to meet the Prussians because they would not accede to his demands. What more is to be learned? Tell me."

  "I don't know," I say. "I hate being a spy, too."

  He comes to the bedside to stand over me, looking down at my eyes peeking above the cover and I think I know what is going through his mind:

  I am a young man in the prime of my youth and I am about to go off to war. I know that I might very well be killed when the battle rages. I also know that there is a girl, a girl I like very much, lying half clothed in that warm bed next to me.

  What could that girl expect, except that the young man should take off his jacket and lay it over a chair and then loosen his tie and take off his shirt? That he should sit in that chair and remove his shoes and socks and then stand and reach for the top button of his trousers.

  Oh, Jean-Paul, I like you so very, very much, but...

  But I know that things are going to change between us and I decide to tell him just how things lie. "Jean-Paul, I'm going to tell you something that's going to tie your mind in a tight little knot."

  "And what is that, Jacqui?"

  "Je suis une vierge," I whisper. "Whether you want to believe that or not is up to you, mon cher."

  His eyes go wide. "What? You? Non! It is not possible!"

  "It is true, however." I wiggle deeper into the bed. "And I am promised in marriage to a Lieutenant James Fletcher, a British Naval officer who may, or may not, be still alive, and who might not even want me when I come back to him."