by Jo Graham
"Were you? By chance?" Her eyebrows rose, plucked and perfect as ever. "I heard that you were in Bavaria some time ago, engaged in...." Therese paused delicately. "Martial endeavors."
"Alas, Madame, I fear the army grew too dull." I paused with my back to her, before one of her large gilt mirrors. I could see her reflected over my shoulder, a study in pink and gold.
Charles van Aylde was a very handsome young man. Fair hair cut in the latest Brutus cut just touched the top of his high collar, white linen setting off a dove gray riding coat to perfection. His features were even, almost pretty, though his mouth was too cynical for beauty, the first fine lines appearing at the edges of it, belying one's initial impression of youth. No, Charles was not as young as he looked, not anymore. His eyes were too cool, and his rakehell manners did not quite hide far too much steel. A man so inclined might wonder if he played the girl in the bedroom, but would be unlikely to find out.
"Did it?" Therese said in the mirror. "I am surprised."
"It lacked sufficient scope for certain amusements," I said, turning about, the riding crop still in my hands.
Therese smiled sweetly, but I saw the shiver that passed through her. "Did it now?"
"It did," I said, taking a step closer. "And certainly the salons of Paris are much duller without you to ornament them."
My eyes held hers, but it was she who looked away. "What is it you want?"
"Besides your charming company?" I asked innocently. "Surely you remember what good friends we have been in the past." I cocked my head, one foot forward in its tasseled leather boot.
"I do," she said. "But we did not part friends, did we?"
"That, I fear, was your doing, not mine," I said, arching my back just a little as Victor had when he played this game.
"It was," she said. Therese gathered her legs under her and sat up. "So now I'm wondering what you want. You look well turned out, and you have no reason to think I would give you money. You haven't any proof of the things you might say, and my dear Comte de Camaran has heard all the nasty, unsubstantiated rumors before. If such things mattered to him, we should not be where we are."
"Oh?" I asked, raising an eyebrow rakishly, "Does he like the crop too?"
At that she did color just a bit, and I felt with a rush the sudden jolt of desire unfeigned, as though suddenly the seams of these trousers rubbed in entirely the wrong places. I had gotten to her, which I never used to do, and there was a thrill in the power of that.
"Perhaps, Madame, I am here instead to do you a good turn." I looked about the room appraisingly. "You seem quite comfortable, however, and probably not in need of fifty thousand francs."
That got her attention. "Where in the world would you get fifty thousand francs?"
"From a certain gentleman," I said, pacing around behind a pink brocade slipper chair. "A friend who has my interests at heart." I stopped and looked at her, one gloved hand resting on the chair back. "Fifty thousand francs, Madame, for some trifles of yours. If you are interested."
"Ah." Therese lounged back on her chaise, smirking like a cat in cream. "Now we come down to it. What sort of trifles?"
"Letters," I said. "From Joséphine de Beauharnais. Written in the spring and summer of the Year IV."
"Say rather Madame Bonaparte, as she was at that moment," Therese said. "Of course I have some little notes, but why should they be worth that?"
I bent over, my elbows on the chair back. "You know what I want," I said. "I saw the flash of cupidity in your eyes. I am prepared to pay exceedingly well, if they contain enough interesting material."
"Joséphine is a dear friend of mine," she said. "I should not want to betray her confidence for so poor a sum."
"A dear friend who is only too happy to have you exiled from Paris," I observed. "Could it be that you stepped upon her one time too many? I remember how you used to enjoy cutting her, dear friend that she was. It's a pity she was the one who wound up married to the head of state!"
At that Therese's eyes snapped. "And that only because Barras made her! She never wanted to marry him! But Paul Barras demanded it, and she had to jump. And then she nearly ruined the whole thing. Empress of France! It's folly!"
I chose my words carefully. "Perhaps Empress. Perhaps not. That may rest on those little notes you have. But of course if they contain nothing of interest…."
"Who are you working for?" Therese stood up, kicking her skirts out before her.
"I am not at liberty to reveal that, Madame."
"You're working for one of the Bonapartes, aren't you?" she demanded. "They don't want Joséphine crowned. They want him to divorce her. That's it, isn't it?"
"It could be." I shrugged negligently. "But if you do not have any papers of interest, then it is a moot point. I am not authorized to pay unless it is actually of worth."
"It's of worth," Therese said sharply. "It would be worth a good deal to them. I'll see your money."
"I'll see the paper first," I said, holding her eyes.
"Wait here," she said, crossing the room and closing the door behind her abruptly.
I waited. Outside the bees were in the flowerbed. I went to the mirror and straightened the folds of my cravat. Oh yes, Charles, I said to myself, you do this quite well. Aren't you the devil?
It was not long before she returned. "Here," she said, thrusting a letter at me, a packet of others tied with blue ribbons still in her hand. "This is the one you want."
12 Floreal, Year IV
Therese, you know I hate to beg favors of you, but I do need the name of the doctor you mentioned. It has been more than four décades now and I am quite certain. I fear that it is growing too late to end this safely, and I must very soon before people notice. If you would make an appointment with this man for me I would appreciate it, or if not at least give me his name. I do not dare use one of the midwives here, for fear they will talk too freely. My husband is writing me twice a day, begging me to come to Italy, and I am running out of excuses. Already his sister Caroline writes to him saying that she thinks I am with child, and I have told him that I am not. I've told him I'm just ill with a spring cold, but I cannot expect to be believed very long, not with that sister of his nosing about. I'm telling the footman to wait for your reply.
Joséphine
I read it over twice, as though to make certain of its worth, though my mind was spinning. I had been there, that spring. I had stood with Joséphine at one of Moreau's receptions, had hardly paid attention when she said her husband wrote her too often, though I remembered she had seemed distracted. Yes, I thought. I knew just when it was. Therese had arrived with M. Ouvrard, and Joséphine had pounced on her, pulling her away to talk. I remembered that.
If we had been better friends, perhaps it would have been I that she confided in rather than Therese. I was a better friend to have. I should not have saved her notes to sell.
I schooled my face to boredom, as though I were merely satisfied with merchandise offered. "Hippolyte Charles, I assume."
Therese shrugged. "She didn't tell me which lover. Hippolyte Charles or Paul Barras. I don't know precisely when she and Barras broke it off. But it won't be important to your buyer. It doesn't matter which lover." She smiled maliciously. "I wonder what Caroline will think of the nice things her new sister-in-law said about her?"
"I am sure she will be very interested," I said.
"The money?" Therese prompted.
I got out the draft and handed it to her. "Fifty thousand francs, drawn on the Bank of France. It is always a pleasure, Madame."
She took the draft eagerly, glancing over every detail, then looked up at me. "Is it?"
"It is," I said, and with a feral smile seized her chin in one gloved hand, tilting up her lips as mine descended, hard and very thorough. I felt her respond, moving closer, her full breasts pressed against me, her warm body and her seeking hands.
I stepped back, putting the letter in my pocket with a flourish and making a little bow. "Very n
ice," I smirked, "But not as good as I remembered."
And I took my leave.
It was a long way back to Paris. I slept with the letter beneath my pillow, of course, in every inn where I stayed.
I dreamed, and in my dream I stood in a garden, stark rectangular pool bordered by a weeping almond tree, walls about carved with ancient princes, and above the clear azure sky of distant lands. I dreamed, and in my dream I sat beside a young man with long black hair, his green eyes reflecting the waters, the light dancing on his face, beautiful and serene.
"I come here," he said, "To remember."
"As do I," I said.
He reached out and stirred the water with one hand idly, long and graceful fingers, a beauty just past his prime. "I did not want to be in this story," he said. "I didn't. But fate left me no choice. And now for better or worse I must play the queen. It is not what I intended."
I bent my head, flashes of fire on the water, fire and the memory of fire. "Would you truly be free of this if you could?"
"Not now," he said, looking out over the pool, a breeze stirring his hair. "Not now. But when I was younger I only wanted heart's ease. Can you not understand that?"
"Of course I can, my friend," I said. "I have known a little of sorrow too."
"And once again you will choose your own way, master all or be mastered." He smiled, and I thought it was a fond smile, though his face was drawn and tired. "You act as though we can choose who we will be. I told you that before, if you remember."
"I do," I said, "And I believe it still. I am a Companion because I choose to be, not because destiny binds me. I choose out of love."
"As do I," he said. "Choose well."
I woke. It was dawn, and I slept in the loft room of an inn, Charles's shirt about me and the letter in my hand. And I knew what I would do.
A Rose Without Thorns
"Her Imperial Majesty will not see you." The footman was officious, barely glancing at me. I did not look like much, come from the south in autumn rains wearing men's clothes as I had once, in wilder times. And even then I had not dared to show my face at Malmaison without invitation. How much worse to turn up now, six weeks before her coronation!
Perhaps it would be her coronation, perhaps not. Perhaps in six weeks Joséphine would be Empress of France. Or perhaps she would not be. It might depend on what I carried.
I fumbled in my waistcoat pocket and brought out the note I had prepared. "Will you at least take her my card? It is a matter of the greatest delicacy and importance."
At that he sniffed, but he deigned to take it while I stood beside my horse outside the gatehouse. Someone had planted very pretty red geraniums in the windowbox of the second story of the gatehouse, and they bloomed still. The autumn had not been harsh.
"There, Nestor," I said, smoothing his unruly mane. He was a little blown from the journey. I had not dared to stop once we were close to Paris. Even now, Fouché might be hearing of my return. He, at least, would know in a moment what it meant that I had gone instead to Joséphine. He, like I, knew I had probably signed my own death warrant.
The footman returned, picking his way over the puddles of the drive careful of his white silk stockings. His demeanor was entirely different. "Please come in, Madame. The stable boy will take your horse. Her Imperial Majesty is awaiting you in the garden." He gestured politely, and I handed over Nestor's reins.
With my head high, I walked over the cobbles and around the side of the lawn. A beautiful Lebanese cedar stood only as high as my waist, a specimen tree brought back by the expedition, no doubt. I wondered if it would thrive in France.
The roses did. Even though it was late in the year, the rose garden was a riot of color, blossoms from palest shell to the color of rich Burgundy intermingled. At Malmaison, transplanted roses bloomed even though the leaves were already falling from the trees. In an ash barrel along the far walk a fire was smoldering, casting a pall of smoke from the damp leaves that burned, the scent of autumn.
She was standing among the trees, where a path led among the trees to a little Greek pavilion, a statue of Aphrodite Cythera lifting an urn. Joséphine's dress was white, and the cashmere wrap around her shoulders was shades of rose and cream. I thought she looked pale.
"You said it was urgent."
"It is," I said, and stopped opposite her, my boots hard on the damp ground. I reached into my shirt and gave her the letter that rested against my heart. I said nothing more.
She opened it, and I saw her hands tremble as she saw what it was. A chill passed across her face, as though she were already dead.
"Therese," she said.
"Yes," I replied. "She gave it to me for what Fouché gave to me to offer her."
"You know what it says."
"Yes," I said.
She held it lightly, as though afraid it would bite. "If you know what it is, then you know what it is worth to him." Her eyes searched my face, dark and curious, even in this terror, and I knew what she saw – a merveilleuse as she had been, tattered now in my mud-spattered men's clothes, while she would be Empress of France. I had not particularly been her friend. "Why have you come here instead of to Fouché?"
I met her eyes evenly. "Because it is the right thing to do."
A tiny frown began between her brows. "And what will you do with this?"
I spread my hands. "Nothing. It is yours. You will do with it as you want."
"Your word, Therese's word, is nothing without this," she said. "Gossip."
I nodded. "The word of a courtesan with ample reason to be jealous. Nothing more."
"And what will happen to you?"
I took a long breath. I had thought it through over and over on the long ride from the Loire, and I knew. "I will be deported to Holland, to spend the rest of my days in a madhouse, however long they may be. If I do not do as Fouché says, he has been clear about what the consequences will be."
"And you are giving this to me?" The line between her brows grew tighter.
"Yes," I said.
Swift as a marten she flew across the grass and dropped it in the gardener's fire. I followed and saw it already half consumed. I watched while the flames reduced it to ashes.
Joséphine took a deep breath and lifted her eyes to mine. "Come in the house," she said, "And have some coffee. It's cold out here."
We went in and I stood while she told the footman what to bring, then followed her in to a sumptuous library, its dark green velvet drapes framing a view of the lawn. The fire was lit, and I stood close by, trying to shake the chill that had come over me. Above, the ceiling was half finished. I could not tell if the painting was to be the gods on Olympus, or their modern counterparts here.
The coffee came, and Joséphine fussed about with milk and sugar while I stood by the fire, the enormity of what I had done washing over me.
"Why?" she asked.
I shrugged. "I could not let that be used against you. I was there, remember? I was at those parties of Barras' when I was with Moreau. I was there. You told me your husband had gone to Italy, and that he wrote too often."
"Did I say that?" She looked at me over the rim of her cup. "I should not have said that."
"No," I said. "But you did not know then what he would become."
She shook her hair back, dark curls falling back over her shoulders from their pins. "I didn't," she said. "And I did not want to marry him. Did you know that?"
"Not in so many words," I said. Therese had said that, but like everything else Therese said, I took it with a grain of salt.
She gave me a rueful smile, her lips tight over her teeth. "I was in love with Lazare Hoche. We were in prison together during the Revolution. I can't explain to you what that was like, spending each day in those barns full of prisoners, waiting to be called to the tumbrels. Each day might be our last. He was kind and strong, calm and philosophical no matter what came. He was my rock. He made me strong. He made me kind." She put her cup down on a gilt table, poured more coffee in
it. "And then Barras came with his infernal bargain."
That I knew. "Your life and the lives of your children and the lives of the little Auguié girls if you would be his mistress. The guillotine if you would not."
She nodded, glancing up, and I thought her eyes were beautiful, dark and timeless as the night sky. "If I had been more like you perhaps I would have said no. But I did not want to die. I did not want my children to die. I was not brave enough."
I shrugged. "I would not have been either. There are too many good things still in the world."
"That may be," she said, and lifted the cup to her lips, Sevres porcelain banded in gold. "I agreed. And Lazare and I made promises. If we could get through this, we said, if we could survive, we would be together. My husband was dead. When this was done, he would get a divorce from his wife. Barras would be through with me someday. And then we would marry. Then we would be happy forever."
I tasted the coffee, rich with cream. "I understand," I said.
"Do you?" she said, her eyebrows rising. "I did as Barras wanted. And of course before long his interest began to wane. That was when it happened. Bonaparte, he said, is in love with you. Bonaparte adores you. Bonaparte worships you from afar. And I need Bonaparte as a counterbalance to Moreau."
Joséphine looked at me and I nodded. "Oh yes," I said. "Moreau wanted the Republic."
"Bring me Bonaparte, he said. You can entrance him. You can play him. And I? I knew little enough of him, practically a schoolboy who didn't even own a dress sword, writing me the most absurd letters full of declared fire!"
"And so you did," I said.
She shrugged. "It was easy. A day, two days and he was eating out of my hand, calling me his destiny, the other half of his wandering soul."
I drew a breath.
"He wanted to marry me. I told Barras it was impossible. He said if I went through with it Bonaparte would be off to Italy before the wedding breakfast had been eaten, and that as soon as he was tired of me I should have my divorce and so should Lazare. We could finally be together. If I could just keep Bonaparte entranced a few more months…." She reached for the cream, stirring more of the heavy liquid into the coffee. Outside, there was the first spatter of rain. "You know what happened then."
