My Bonny Light Horseman: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, in Love and War

by L. A. Meyer

  "A glass of wine with you, Sir?" I manage to offer through clenched teeth.

  "Shut up, girl. Listen to me and heed me well. We are too exposed here and will not meet like this again." He looks about him to make sure we are not observed.

  "What could be better cover?" I ask, recovering myself a bit. "A man sitting at a table talking to a known denizen of the demimonde. What is more ordinary in Paris, the City of Light?"

  "We'll see. Now, here are some rules. When we want to talk to you, we will put a light in the window directly across from your room. You will then go down to the corner to await further instructions. If you want to talk to us, hang this yellow handkerchief out your window and we will contact you. Do you have that?"

  "I am not stupid, Sir," I say, taking the yellow rag from him and stuffing it up my sleeve.

  "I know you are not that. You have been here for only three days and already you have turned one of my valued operatives into a babbling idiot. Monsieur de Valdon is quite unsettled. One more slip on his part and he will be sent back to the provinces for retraining."

  "I shall try to be good, and I will bother the confused Monsieur de Valdon no more."

  "That is good. Now ... At the performance tonight there will be many men, and you must mix with them all, but I want you to focus in on one in particular, Marshal Hilaire de Groote. He is a General of the Imperial Guard, Napoléon's finest regiment. We need to know when and to where Napoléon is going to move the Grand Army. He had massed it at Dunkerque to move across into Britain, but his fleet was destroyed at Trafalgar."

  "I know that, Sir, as I was there."

  He greets that statement with a cold laugh.

  "That may be so, but what you don't know is where he plans to move that army. General de Groote does know, and it is up to you to find out.

  "The General is a tall, heavy man with a large mustache who will be wearing the Imperial Guard uniform—dark blue coat with long tails and red turnbacks, red epaulets, and white lapels. He will probably be wearing his medals, too, as he is not a modest man. It shouldn't be difficult for you to recognize him."

  "I am sure I will be able to pick him out," I say. "But why do you think I will be able to get close to him? There are many girls there, and they are all very pretty."

  He gets up and looks down at me.

  "One thing that is known about Marshal de Groote—he likes his girls little and he likes them young."

  "Ah" is all I say.

  "Do your duty, girl," he says. "Report to me tomorrow morning. Adieu."

  He leaves just in time, as Giselle and Zoé waltz into the place and I wave them over for a final aperitif before we head off to our work.

  The place fills up quickly. I peek out through the curtain, excited. Though both myself and my virtue may be in deep trouble, still I do love a show, I do love to perform. There are both men and women in the crowd and all are very finely dressed. There are also many men in uniform, and splendid uniforms they are—Grenadiers, Lancers, Hussars, Light Cavalry, Dragoons, Cuirassiers—all plumes and cockades and tight trousers and boots and epaulets and bright turnbacks and snowy lapels ... and that is just the men, the women are—

  "Come back from there, Jacqui," orders Zoé, taking me by the shoulder and pulling me back from the curtain. "Time for mixing with them later. Tell us another story of America, while we wait for the opening number." It hadn't taken them long to figure out that my English name is the same as the French so they shorten it almost immediately to Jacqui. They pronounce it "Jacky" so it sounds right familiar to me.

  There is an orchestra out there, too, and they are tuning up. They have two fiddles, a viola, cello, oboe, trumpet, and bassoon. I have never worked with such an ensemble! Joy!

  I go back into the dressing room. We are all in costume and ready to go. The orchestra runs through the squeaks and squawks of tuning up and getting ready. I'm in the middle of telling the girls about the House of the Rising Sun in New Orleans while they interrupt with questions, when everybody falls silent.

  "All right, girls, places!" announces Madame Pelletier. And we all hit our marks. The curtain rises and the music swells.

  The first number is a thing where we all pretend to be fluttering swans on a lake, all on tippy toes and moving our arms like softly flapping wings, and Isadora, dressed as a hunter, lifts her crossbow and shoots Zoé, the head swan, in the breast and she falls fluttering to the ground and the rest of us swans gather around her and mourn her death. Actually, given the caliber of this troupe, she doesn't do a bad job in dying. I could do better, but, hey, let it go.

  Curtain down, applause, the orchestra cuts into a new piece, Haydn, I think, and we get a slight break. I do love the applause.

  Again the curtain rises and this time we are elves in a forest cavorting about most scandalously. Toads and frogs are involved. Hopping about, I get to the front rank in this one and I spot him, and he is looking directly at me, no question, and his look does not waver. It is, without doubt, Marshal Hilaire de Groote, in full military rig, and with lust in his eye. He is, however, seated next to a very stern-looking woman. Hmmm...

  The number ends, the elf queen is restored to her throne, and the curtain falls. It is intermission and we get to take a bow, lining up, hand in hand across the stage.

  The crowd gets up from their seats and heads to the bar for refreshment, and we girls, throwing silken shawls about our shoulders for modesty, go there to join them.

  We receive attention from all the young men, of course—drinks are thrust into our hands, and compliments given on our performance. And not just the young men, either—plenty of older gents who should know better come sniffing around, too. Old hounds ... But I laugh and giggle and simper and am pleasant to all, and then I feel a large hand on my shoulder, and all the other men look down and fall away.

  "You are new here," he says, removing his hand and bowing slightly. "I enjoyed your performance."

  "I am pleased that you did, Sir," I reply with a slight curtsy. "But you have the better of me, as I do not know your name." I damn well do, of course.

  "I am Field Marshal Hilaire de Groote, of the Imperial Guard," he says, lifting my hand and kissing the back of it. "Et vous?"

  Deep curtsy this time. "I am Miss Jacqueline Ophelia Bouvier, late of Boston in the United States."

  "Ah. The Americans. Our sometime allies."

  "The French are never far from our hearts, Sir. We remember Lafayette."

  "Well said. Hmmm. I find you a well-spoken young woman and I would like to spend a bit of time with you ... discussing America and all. Unfortunately, I am here tonight with my wife, who is somewhat of a jealous sort and does not understand simple ... conversation between people of like minds." For an old rogue, he is certainly smooth.

  "Perhaps tomorrow, Sir?" I say, trying to conceal the dread I feel. "I would very much like to have some ... conversation with you."

  "Alas," he says, shaking his big head, "I am unfortunately called out on military affairs till Tuesday." He straightens up and intones, "The Emperor calls and I must obey."

  "Of course, mon Général. Tuesday night, then, Sir," I say, lowering the eyelashes. "After the performance. 127, rue de Londres, room number seven?"

  "It is done, my dear. I shall be there, and you shan't regret our meeting, I assure you," he answers, with a slightly furtive cut of the eyes to make sure his wife is not watching this exchange. She, occupied in polite conversation elsewhere, apparently is not.

  There is a bell to signal the end of the intermission, and all us girls flee to the dressing room, where Giselle immediately collars me.

  "You watch out for that one, Jacqui," she advises, all serious. "He is known to be brutal and rough. Ask Sacha there."

  I look to Sacha, a small, quiet, and very young-looking girl. She nods and points to a bruise on her temple. "We call de Groote 'the Goat' for good reason, chérie. If you go into a room with him, make sure you have a way out."

  I take that advice to he
art.

  The music comes up again, as does the curtain, and we are on.

  The rest of the program is similar to the first—lots of silly plots and plenty of high kicking and flashing of legs. At the finale we are all in a line, and after some especially high kicks, we turn our backs, bend over, and flip up our skirts.

  As I look down at my ankles with my tail in the air and shake the ruffles on my drawers, I think, Oh, if Amy Trevelyne and my sisters at the Lawson Peabody could only see me now!

  Chapter 24

  I hang the yellow signal handkerchief in the window while I'm washing up and dressing. Then I take it down, shove it under the mattress, and go down the stairs.

  "I trust you enjoyed the cognac," I say to Madame Gris, as I flip her the key on my way out without looking to see whether or not she catches it. All I hear from her is a snort. We'll see, you old cow.

  A closed carriage pulls up in front of me, the door swings open, and I climb in. Jean-Paul de Valdon sits in the opposite seat.

  "Bonjour," I say by way of greeting. "I see they have sent the boy instead of the man."

  "Monsieur Jardineaux was called away this morning on an affair of great importance," he says.

  "I'm sure," I murmur, as I settle myself. "Anyway, here is my report: I met Marshal de Groote last night, and he seemed quite taken with me. Things would have come to a head, so to speak, right then, but, unfortunately, his wife was with him, so I was unable to strip down and get under him right then, as I assume that even in Paris there are rules about such things—Madame Pelletier's theater being a public place and all."

  "You are not being funny."

  "Non? I thought I was just giving you my report. Anyway, he will come to my room Tuesday night. I will get the information. First, I want to see where he lives."

  "What ever for?"

  "I should explain to you? Am I not a member of this organization, too? Have I not a mind?" I say, fixing him with the Look. "Very well, I shall tell you. When I am ... entertaining him, I will want to compliment him on his fine house, his high station in life—that's how girls like us inflate the male soul and make him tell us even more of himself. Do you understand now?"

  "All right." He leans his head out the window. "Driver. Rue Saint-Lazare." To me he says, "It is not far. Only two blocks."

  Good. Then I shall not have far to run tonight.

  We clatter through the streets down rue de Londres, turn left onto a large boulevard, and then left onto a quieter street, lined with fine houses.

  "Armand. Drive slowly but do not stop."

  "Oui, Monsieur." It's plain that the hack belongs to this bunch. Its driver, too.

  Presently we arrive at what is probably the finest residence on the street. It is a two-story house, a mansion, really, set back about twenty yards from the road, and it's surrounded by a wrought-iron fence approximately eight feet high, each upright topped with a halyard spike. Still, not too bad—better than stone with broken glass imbedded in the top. There are two uniformed guards at the gate. There are no guards at the entrance to the mansion itself, but I suspect the Marshal is well protected inside as well. Well, it is not him I want.

  I notice a delivery being made to a side door—must be the servants' entrance. A girl in maid's clothing receives the groceries. Wonder if de Groote gets on the help ... probably does. Hmmm... There is an attic window at the peak of the roof ... probably the servants' quarters. I hear a dog bark ... maybe two.

  "Well, that's enough, boy," I say and give him a kick in the shin. "Now take me to Notre Dame Cathedral. It is Sunday and my day off."

  "We were there just the other day. Why go again?" He looks at me in anger, and maybe, with just a little hurt in his eyes.

  "Because I wish to pray for my friends, of which you are not one."

  "For the Mass? I did not know you were Catholic."

  "I am anything I want to be. I have many Catholic friends in the States and I have been to church with them. You will show me the proper time to kneel down and when to get up and when to—"

  "But why should I cart you about like this while you insult me and call me a baby?"

  "Because I am going to perform a very great service for you and your people. A service, I might add, I am going to find extremely distasteful. No matter what you might think of me."

  "All right," he says, and gives instructions to Armand. We rattle forward and sit in silence for a while.

  At length he clears his throat and says, "Mademoiselle Bouvier. Yesterday, when I spurned your hand ... It was not for the reason you said—that I had no respect for you. No, it was because I caught the wrath of hell from Monsieur Jardineaux for letting you slip away the previous day. I don't even know how he found out, but he did." He flushes. "I was almost sent away in disgrace."

  I decide I have tormented him enough, and as I need this boy on my side, I pop over to seat myself beside him.

  "That makes me feel much better, Jean-Paul. Thank you." Arm back in arm, with a bit of a snuggle. "Do you think lightning will strike the steeple of Notre Dame for one such as I being in it? Will the gargoyles stand up to roar in anger?"

  "No, I do not think so, Mademoiselle Bouvier. It is all about sin and divine grace and forgiveness, is it not?"

  "All us working girls certainly hope so." A bit more of a wiggle and a snuggle on that. "And you must call me Jacqui. Everybody does, you know," I say to him as I watch the city roll by while we head down to the great cathedral.

  We go in the front door of the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris and Jean-Paul dips his hand in a little stone basin next to the door and puts his hand to his forehead and does that Sign of the Cross thing. I am amazed at the interior of the place—if I considered Saint Paul's in my old neighborhood impressive, it was a minor wonder compared to this. I stand gaping in awe at the rosette window high above me, a great round stained-glass piece of artwork, with the sunlight streaming through. Below it are nine long, double-wide stained-glass windows depicting Biblical scenes. A Mass is going on at one of the altars, but Jean-Paul takes me by the arm and leads me over to a nearby dimly lit alcove where many candles are burning, some freshly lit, some guttering out.

  "I think this is really where you want to be."

  He gives a coin to a woman clad in black who sits quietly to the side, and she hands me a candle.

  "You kneel on that low bench and light the candle from one that is already burning and then put it there in line with the others. I'll be outside." And he leaves me alone.

  I put my knees on the padded bench and stick the wick of my candle into the flame of a candle that is about to wink out, and it catches. Then I put it in line with the others.

  I am kneeling in a Catholic church, Jaimy, and I know that it would drive your family quite mad to know this, but it is all that I have available to me to pray for your recovery. Actually, it is a very nice place and I think you would like it and I hope to visit it again sometime with you by my side.

  "That was very nice, Jean-Paul," I say, as I come back out into the light of the plaza in front of the cathedral. He waits by the carriage.

  "Will Armand tell on you? Or us?" I ask, as I climb in.

  "He would if he thought it a serious breach on my part. But he won't for this. He is from my village in Normandy. He knows my family, and I know his," he says. "And as for you, Jacqui, everybody is finding it very hard to dislike you."

  "Ha. You'll find eventually that a little of me goes a long way." I laugh. "But now, we must have some lunch."

  ***

  As I polish off the last of yet another staggeringly good meal at a cozy little restaurant near the Seine, we return to the carriage and after he hands me up, Jean-Paul gives some instructions to the driver. He climbs in next to me and Armand chucks at the horse and we are off again.

  "Where are we going now?" I ask, fearing that he just might be taking me off to my room ... or his, for a bit of a tumble in the sheets. After all, from what he thinks he knows of me, all he would have to
do is put twenty francs on my dresser top to pay for my services and on to the romp. But my fears are unfounded. Probably thinks he might catch something from me. A wise boy.

  "I have read your dossier. You like to paint? Make drawings and such? Fine. I shall take you to the Louvre," he says.

  "And that is?"

  "A former palace of the King. It is now full of paintings looted from the royal treasures. It was set up for the education of the ... people."

  "You want to say the rabble, don't you, Jean-Paul?"

  "No, I am for the people of France, above all things."

  "That is good of you," I say, pressing my lips together firmly. "In your dossier on me, did it also say that I grew up on the streets of London, a penniless orphan, just like those urchins begging over there? Hmmm? Tell Armand to go slowly by them. I will throw them some money."

  He does it and I dig in my purse for some coins and then lean out the window. "Here, mes petites, have something good to eat tonight." The centimes hit the cobblestones and the kids shout in delight and scramble for the coins.

  "You see that girl there?" I ask, pointing to a very skinny girl, about ten years old, clad in a dirty rag, who holds up her prize coin and waves her thanks. "That was me."

  "I am sorry."

  "Don't be. I made many friends there. Lifelong friends. There is more to the rabble than you might think."

  I have never before been in an art museum, or any other kind of museum, for that matter. I am overwhelmed by it all. Jean-Paul points out huge paintings of battles, of gods and goddesses fIinging thunderbolts, naked fat ladies being hauled off to certain ruin by soldiers and Minotaurs, small, jewel-like portraits of fine Venetian ladies, stern Dutch burghers, crucifixions both of Jesus and others, martyred saints, and beautiful children.