The General's Mistress

by Jo Graham

  I laughed. “That’s the kind of thing the army says about the navy and the navy about the army! We all know about sailors, don’t we?”

  He took it in good humor. “I’ll show you all about sailors after a bit! If you’ve never had one before, you should come over to our side. You’ll never go back to great brutes smelling of horse.” He shrugged, and his face stilled. There was a good mind behind those laughing eyes, I thought, a young man with more to him than bravado and charm. “Not like that, I mean. He looks at you, and it’s like he’s not just seeing you. He’s seeing what’s inside you. Something more. You reminded me a little bit of him, just a shadow. He’s more than real, maybe. Like the realest thing in the world.”

  I shivered involuntarily. “A general who reminds you of a woman who does séances? I’m not sure that’s a recommendation.”

  “A general who reminds me of a companion? I’m not sure that is either.” René grinned. “Not really. Not what I meant by love. I shouldn’t have expected you to understand.”

  “Why should I? You know what I am,” I said, shrugging prettily. “I’d much rather you showed me the truth about sailors.”

  But I knew what he meant. I knew far too well, and a sorrow I could not place pierced me to the heart. I kissed him so that I could forget it.

  Perhaps that conversation was what spoiled my mood. I went through the evening feeling slightly off-kilter the entire time. It was nothing René did. He was handsome and considerate, and after Chaptal’s heavy-handed intercourse he should have been a fresh wind. He was certainly skilled enough. If his tastes were less extreme than Moreau’s, at least he could think of something to do besides the obvious.

  And yet I was oddly detached. My mind kept wandering. I was thinking about the rent and the book that I would now be able to afford since I hadn’t counted on a month of companionship. I kept falling out of that place where one should be making love, losing the rhythm and pushing myself back into it. And a few minutes later I would drift off again. I pushed myself hard to come, and finally did with his hand on my pearl and his lips against my throat. But it didn’t feel quite right, and when I lay beside him afterward I could not sleep.

  I rolled over to the edge of the bed, beyond his outflung hand. Would it be different if it were someone else? Or was it that I missed Moreau’s games of passion, and now answered only to dominance and humiliation?

  Get a grip on yourself, I told myself sternly. René is a kind young man, a charming lover, as pleasant and accommodating as any woman could want. If it’s Moreau you’re missing, you’ll have to get used to it. And if it’s Ney or some other dream lover you’re wanting, then you need to grow up. Don’t throw away a piece of luck because it’s not your beautiful ideal. What’s a month with a handsome, generous man? Enjoy it while it lasts and make the most of it, as he will.

  René Gantheaume left for Le Havre and the frigate Minerve a week before Walpurgis Night. It had been a perfectly spectacular leave. We had dined out somewhere nice and expensive every night; there had been fireworks displays over the Seine, picnics in the Bois de Boulogne, theater and dance halls. And night after night at the Admiral’s house on Île Saint-Louis.

  I saw him onto the coach for Le Havre, kissed him goodbye to the cheers of two of his friends. And of course the coach didn’t start right away. He got back out and came and stood with me while the coachman and the stable master discussed the foot of the left rear horse. René loosened his stock. It was going to be a warm day. “Will you be all right?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I said. “It was fun, wasn’t it?”

  He nodded, and there was something wistful in his face. “Another month and I might have won you.”

  “I think you’ve already had me quite thoroughly.”

  “Not really.” René looked over at the equine mysteries transpiring. Now there was a farrier in it, pointing and gesturing. “Your heart . . .”

  “My heart is not for sale,” I said gently. “Or even for rent.”

  “Who does it belong to? Moreau?”

  I shrugged. “René, would you believe me if I told you that it was a man I’ve met one time, who probably doesn’t even remember my name? And I have no idea why.”

  “I would believe you,” he said. “There are some strange things in this world, like currents that cross beneath the sea. Who is he?”

  “A soldier,” I said. “I dream about him. I dream that I know him, that we are meeting in some distant place and we are old friends, that he’s my lover, my husband, my son, my master, even my prince. Sometimes I hear something and it brings it back to me like a punch in the stomach, like seeing an old lover across a crowded street.” I didn’t know why I was confiding in René, but how could it hurt? He was off for Le Havre and the sea, and he had been kind.

  “Perhaps you’ve known him before,” René said. “In some other life.”

  I looked around at him sharply. “You believe in that kind of thing?”

  René shrugged. “I don’t know why not. I’d rather believe in Virgil’s underworld than Dante’s.”

  “As simple as that? You can dismiss eighteen centuries of Christianity like that?”

  “Why not? If men can worship Reason or the gods of India, pray to Buddha or a Deist clockmaker, why not Mars or Aphrodite? Doesn’t it all come down to the same thing in the end?”

  “Does it?” I asked. “To dismiss Church and Reason both?”

  He put his hands gently on my shoulders. “I’m a sailor, Ida. I don’t claim to understand the workings of eternity. But a simple builder who hauls stone to the work site doesn’t understand the plan of the great cathedral he builds, how the mathematics of the buttresses work, how the windows should be made, and yet he contributes to the work. I’m a sailor, and you’re a courtesan. Neither of us can see the pattern. But that doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

  I looked at him, and it was as though I were really seeing him for the first time. There was a tiny squint line beginning between his brows, the shadow of a beard on his face though he had shaved only a few hours before.

  “Make up a story for me,” he said. “Don’t worry about whether it’s real. Just tell me a story.”

  I dropped my eyes to the glitter of braid on his arms, tried to catch a reflection of the sun. “A rower,” I said. “A rower with a wounded shoulder. On a galley under sail in a heaving storm.” I could imagine the green sea washing up her sides, the movement of the deck beneath me, the cold seawater around my ankles as I struggled to move an unmanned oar, to get it inside so it didn’t foul the stroke. The wind tore at me and the rain lashed down. “A wounded rower,” I said, “with an arrow in his shoulder—”

  “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.”

  When 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 w
ill 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 professio
nal. 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.