The General's Mistress

by Jo Graham

  “Where are you going?” I asked. “I thought you would be in Milan for a while.”

  “The First Consul is going to Paris,” he said. “And I am with Bonaparte’s staff, as I told you.”

  “You leave today?”

  “Almost this moment,” he said. “I had hoped for the pleasure of your company at dinner, but I fear that we will have to postpone that reunion.”

  “We will,” I said. “And I am terribly sorry. I had no idea you would be leaving so soon.”

  “Nor did I,” Meynier said. “But Bonaparte moves fast. If you have an hour to prepare, you’re lucky.” He grinned at me, and took hold of the reins. “Do you mind if I tell my friend Ney where you are? He thought you’d disappeared off the face of the earth.”

  I felt my heart quicken. “Surely he would not wonder so much.”

  “He might,” Meynier said. With one smooth motion he mounted. “May I ask a personal question? Are you presently . . . engaged?”

  “No,” I said, and hoped he didn’t see the flush rising in my cheeks. “No, I am alone at present.”

  Meynier bowed from the saddle. “Then until we meet again, Madame.”

  I did not really expect anything to come of it. I did not expect him to write to his friend and tell him of a chance meeting, and still less for Ney to write to me. It was nearly a month later when the letter came.

  We were still in Milan. The Comical Romance was still a great hit, but we had been obliged to learn a new history, Antony and Cleopatra, so that we could leaven our standard fare with something new for officers who had now seen Alexander in Asia half a dozen times.

  Of course, we were the only play in town in French, so they might have seen it twenty times yet, but it helped the box office to expand a bit. Isabella was a lovely Cleopatra, all melting warmth. I was her handmaiden. I had all the sharp lines, which I thought was interesting, if not quite as I imagined the character.

  The letter came right before the opening curtain on a sweltering night in July. I considered waiting to open it, but I didn’t. I couldn’t go on not knowing.

  His handwriting was slanted and legible, like a schoolboy with a ledger that he would be graded on.

  17 Messidor, Year VIII

  Dear Madame St. Elme,

  I have had the Pleasure of Mail from Colonel Meynier, who is known to us both. He said that he had greeted you in Milan. I am happy to hear that you are well. He said that you were the very picture of Health. I am glad the climate of Italy agrees with you. He said that it did. I am pleased that you suffer no ill effects and that you are comfortable.

  He suggests that I should write to you and renew our Acquaintance, distant as it may be. And that moreover I should tell you some Interesting Military Anecdotes that are Revealing of my Character. I am uncertain of the wisdom of this, but I bow to his Superior Understanding of Women.

  We are currently in Munich, having won at the Field of Oberhausen on 9 Messidor, and marched into the City without further Resistance. The Bavarians, for their part, are not eager to support the Austrians, and do not seem Dismayed at the Change in their Fortune.

  The enemy flies whenever we are near. We have taken more than 20,000 prisoners in these Late Months, and widespread desertion makes the Fearful Plight of the Austrians worse. Ulm, which had only a weak garrison, surrendered Without A Shot, to my satisfaction. I hope that Victory, which is with our arms everywhere, will soon end this Struggle and give us Peace. Then I shall hasten home to Enjoy Her Blessings.

  Your Obedient Servant,

  Michel Ney

  I read and reread the letter in my dressing room. I just had time to tuck it in my bosom as I heard my cue. I hurried onstage.

  “My dear lady,” I said to Isabella-as-Cleopatra, “must you give this Roman such credit?” I knelt beside her throne and spread my hands. “Antony is not Caesar, and the gods did not sire him.”

  Isabella looked down at me, her voice scathing. “How can you know whom the gods begot, you who were gotten on a slave? Antony is the noblest man who ever walked the Earth, and into his hands I place my safety.”

  “Dear lady,” I said, “he is a hero, of this I have no doubt. But the fire of genius is not his, to command where others fail, to win love and renown together. He is not Fortune’s darling, as Caesar was.”

  She rose, gathering her robes about her, one hand opening to the audience. “Antony is true and brave, and none gainsay it.” She swept from the stage.

  I looked round, still kneeling, into the footlights. “He is not Caesar,” I said, dropping my voice. “Lady, I fear for you. I fear for us all.”

  I answered the letter that night.

  My dear General Ney,

  I can hardly express my pleasure upon receiving a letter from you! I did not think that you would remember me based upon our brief acquaintance. I am glad to know that you do.

  The climate of Italy is very agreeable, and we are having considerable success with our plays. We are doing The Comical Romance, which is very light and pleasant, and also Antony and Cleopatra, which is tragic but is much appreciated by our troops. Every performance is packed. I don’t imagine most of the men have ever been to a play like this before, but everyone seems to enjoy it. Is that not the truest form of Republicanism, to make available to everyone entertainment formerly reserved for the wealthy? I cannot think but that we are all better for it. And certainly the troupe is better for packed houses. I am playing Sébastienne in The Comical Romance, who is one of the young ladies courted and won in the last scene. Also the Handmaiden, in Cleopatra.

  I hope that this letter finds you still at Munich and still safe. While I know little enough of military endeavors, I can still read between lines and tell that your peril has been grave. Pray be safe, and write to me again!

  Ida St. Elme

  Ney must have replied almost by return post. His letter came in the mailbag of a courier, who dropped it off at my lodging with a grin.

  “Special mail and special delivery. The general was sending dispatches and other things to General Lannes, and asked me to drop this for him.” The courier was a weedy-looking boy with a Gascon accent.

  I tipped him generously. “Are you returning to Munich anytime soon?”

  “General Ney’s not at Munich anymore,” he said. “We’re at Parsdorf now. Or we were when I left. I’m going back directly tomorrow, and I’ll have to hunt the General up and down Bavaria as usual.” He swung back on his horse. “If you’ve got a return letter, I can stop by tomorrow and pick it up.”

  “I will,” I said. “I will look for you in the morning.”

  11 Thermidor, Year VIII

  Dear Madame St. Elme,

  I am glad to know that your plays are doing well. I did not see any until I was in the army, but now I like them very much. I should like to see you as the Handmaiden in Cleopatra, though the idea disturbs me somewhat. It is such a sad play, I expect. I mean that the ending cannot be good. She must die by poison, if I remember. I should not think that I would enjoy watching you do that, even the counterfeit of it. But I suppose it would not be the same play were someone to provide an eleventh-hour rescue.

  I hear that Peace has been proposed. In the meantime, we are Making Certain of our position. Which involves a great deal of running at Alarms and snapping back and forth like a dog on a chain, not venturing too far from Munich and yet charging at any Rumor of an Austrian advance.

  My Peril, as you put it, is not so very great. There is that Austrian army of 100,000 warriors that was not only going to invade the Alsace, Brabant, and so on, but was going to change our political status entirely and end the Republic. There is that Army, I say, reduced to 40,000 runaways not daring to face Republican Phalanxes, which are in rags but are full of courage and sauce. They will make peace, of that I am sure.

  Your servant,

  Michel Ney

  We did not play that night, for there was a musical performance instead, and I sat up composing my reply.

  Isabe
lla came in and found me at it, writing by the light of one candle. “Can you be writing to that man again?”

  I nodded absently, dipping my quill again, trying to recapture what I had been saying.

  “You’ve met him once?” Isabella came and looked over my shoulder at Ney’s letter. “It’s not exactly the picture of romance.”

  “No,” I said.

  She shook her head and walked off. “You’re hopeless.”

  I was.

  My dear General Ney,

  I do not think the Handmaiden would thank you for an eleventh-hour rescue from her fate. Surely the only thing more tragical that she could endure would be to outlive her mistress, knowing that she has been untrue and failed in her charge. How should you live, an outcast man, who had the misfortune to live when your world is gone? Pity the poor Handmaiden her death if you will, but do not wish it otherwise, I pray. She would rather your tears upon her faithful grave.

  I have never yet been to Bavaria, so I do not well imagine your endeavors, your running back and forth. But I am pleased to hear that it is going well, and I thrill to imagine your feats of arms!

  You have saved the Republic, you and men like you. We do not even reckon the worth as yet, for most of us are still sleeping and do not understand the liberties we should lose if you should fail. I know what I should lose. I have my own money in the bank. I could not keep it if the Republic fell, for before I could not have a bank account separate from my husband. I have my own lodgings. How should I live if I could no longer be party to contracts and I could not rent? I may travel freely and live as I like, with liberty unknown to females of other states.

  I am no longer sleeping, but awake, and the cause of liberty is dear to me. Know then, that you are a hero in my eyes for preserving that which is as necessary as breath to me.

  Ida

  I sent the letter in the morning, and it was seven weeks, as they still called them in Italy, before his reply came. I wondered if I had offended him. I wondered if my letter had gone astray and had not reached Ney.

  Isabella was beginning to talk about wintering in Italy. Some of the company wanted to stay and some didn’t. I thought that Isabella was reluctant to leave Auguste Thibault, who seemed to eat out of her hand.

  He was a nice enough man of medium height, with sandy hair and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that he wore for reading or anything else at close range. Otherwise he squinted, which gave him a somewhat comic look. It was obvious that he thought the sun rose and set around Isabella, while she, for her part, treated him with a comfortable familiarity that seemed more warm than passionate.

  I wasn’t sure whether I would winter in Italy or not. An armistice had been signed, and most of our troops were going home. I had not decided what to do when Ney’s letter reached me.

  7 Vendémiaire, Year VIII

  Dear Ida,

  I should rather live, for life is hope, and that which is lost may always be regained. If we fail in our charges, what can we do except strive for better, and by our atonement remedy our flaws?

  I cannot imagine that you have ever been sleeping.

  I have taken some trifling wound to the leg weeks ago, before the armistice. It was a close skirmish, and while there was not much they could do, and indeed some had begun to surrender, this bastard got me with the bayonet along the back of the knee just above the top of my boot. I was on horseback and he on foot, so perhaps it was all he could reach. But it is nothing but a Nuisance. I limp about a bit and shall until the muscle heals.

  I am on my way back to Paris, the peace having been signed. Perhaps you will be there?

  Your servant,

  Michel

  The Road Home

  In the end, Isabella decided to return to Paris after all. Auguste Thibault was being reassigned, and he and his artillery unit were to go north in a few weeks. This decided most of the company. We should all return to Paris together.

  I wrote to Ney to tell him this.

  My dear General,

  Our company has decided to return to Paris, and I expect to arrive there at the end of the summer or early in the fall. We are accompanying an artillery brigade, so our speed will not be great.

  I hope that the wound you have taken is not dangerous. You make light of it in your letter, but I do not know if it is such a little thing, or if this is just your way.

  I would like to see you. When you are in Paris.

  Ida

  Traveling with an artillery train was very different from following after an army, as we had done on the way to Italy. For one thing, the cannon tore up the roads to such an extent that it was sometimes difficult to get our wagon through, especially on hills and slopes when the ground was wet and the road was mud. For another thing, they had their own extensive baggage. Each cannon had its caisson, with shot, chain, swabs, and other supplies. Then there were the powder caissons, packed close and carefully, drawn by horses with their hooves muffled lest their iron shoes throw off sparks from stones in the road.

  After this came the baggage train proper—the feed wagons for the officers’ horses and for the horses who drew the cannon and the carts and caissons, the baggage wagons with tents and cooking pots, rope and lentils, beans and grain and great barrels of wine, vinegar and oil. There was the harness master’s wagon with leather and supplies, driven by the harness master’s apprentice. There were the noncommissioned officers’ wagons, carrying their clothes and private provisions, and the cook’s wagon with chickens and ducks in cages, three nanny goats tied on behind, chewing philosophically as the wagons rolled along the road.

  Then came the sutlers and the unofficial baggage—the wagons hired by officers who clubbed together, carrying folding cots and camp tables, wine and bed linens and shuttered lamps. The sutlers, of which we had two, had fancy foodstuffs for sale, as well as soap, playing cards, novels, eau de cologne, English letters, cognac, and a litter of purebred dachshund puppies. Behind came the laundresses in two wagons. The five of them were all wives or women of various enlisted men among the gun crews, and they took in washing to defray the costs of the road.

  We came after, our gaily painted wagon the court jester at the end of the baggage train. The second man drove the wagon, as the first man was one of the few who’d stayed in Milan. Isabella rode on the box with him while the dresser/understudy and the soubrette sat in the back with the costumes and trunks.

  I rode alongside on Nestor. In my man’s clothes, no doubt I looked like the first man, the handsome one who always plays the hero. I probably could in a pinch. By now I knew all Antony’s lines by heart.

  In the morning we would all start out together, but by nightfall the cannon and their crews would have drawn ahead, the first wagons well out of sight along the bends of the road. It took us some half an hour to come up to them at the halts.

  Three days out of Milan, I was nervous. Or perhaps it was Nestor who was nervous. He had been a cavalry horse, and keeping to the decorous pace of an artillery column bored him. It was one of those glorious end-of-summer days of Northern Italy, when the setting sun gilds the snow still remaining on the distant peaks as though they were dipped in gold, while plunging the valleys into shadow. A slow purple haze spread over the world, and the sounds of the insects were loud. The sky was very blue and very far away. Though the day was warm and I had removed my coat in favor of shirt and waistcoat, the evening chill already spoke of the mountains. Autumn was coming, especially on the heights.

  Most of the wagons were out of sight. Only the laundresses were visible ahead, and when the road curved we could sometimes see the sutlers. It was almost time to make camp. I hoped the head of the column had stopped.

  I was about to ride ahead on Nestor to see if it had when it happened.

  I didn’t see the men come out of the underbrush in the gulley. The first thing I knew was when the soubrette screamed, more startled than afraid. There were six of them, unkempt and bearded, all dressed differently. Not an Austrian patrol or even deserte
rs. They were bandits. No doubt they had been waiting as the column passed, hoping for an easy target at the end.

  One of them grabbed the bridle of the cart horse, a long knife in his hand. Two more closed in on the wagon, while the other three blocked the road ahead and behind. The two ahead looked at me. One of them took a step forward. Nestor was a prize worth having.

  Our second man shouted something, and the cart horse backed, whinnying, not liking the unfamiliar hand on his bridle. Nestor’s ears went back.

  The one before me held a long knife. I could see with sudden startling clarity his bristled chin, the small scar at the corner of his eye, the red laces on his shirt. “Drop the gun, boy,” he said in peasant Italian, “and get off the horse.”

  The second bandit moved closer. He made a grab for Nestor’s rein just as Isabella screamed. I saw, from the corner of my eye, that she was struggling with one of them on the box, heard the ripping of fabric as her dress gave way.

  Nestor shied, and the bandit missed his rein by a finger’s length.

  Absolute, cold clarity. Somewhere Elza might be frightened, but the part of me that was Charles was not. He had done it all before. The bandit was on my right side, but I wore the second man’s pistol on my left.

  Swearing. The sounds of a scuffle. Our second man was lying on the ground in front of the wagon, the cart horse restive at the smell of blood.

  “Get down now, boy,” the other man said.

  I heard the smack as a blow caught Isabella on the side of the head, tumbling her backward onto the chests and the understudy.

  I raised the pistol in my left hand and brought it across me as Nestor backed a step. “No,” I said, and fired it point-blank in the bandit’s face.

  Blood and brains exploded across me, part of his jawbone catching on the lace of my cuffs, teeth still in it. I shook my wrist and it flew. Nestor backed away from the falling body, the acrid powder smoke.

  The other bandit snarled and made a lunge for me, but Nestor backed again. I felt the sudden rush of warmth between my legs as irrelevantly my bladder gave way. Not important right now. I had one shot and no sword, and now they were after me, except for the two still struggling with Isabella, the understudy, and the soubrette in the wagon.