by Jo Graham
He did not force me to my knees. Instead, he cupped my chin in his hands and kissed me thoroughly, almost sweetly, sending warmth running throughout my body. I put my arms around him and drew him close. With him in boots and me barefoot, he had a little bit on me in height.
“My dear,” he said quietly, his mouth against my ear and my golden hair, “you look lovely.”
“And you look tired, Victor,” I said. His collar was wet from the rain.
“Well, it was a tiring journey,” he said. “But it is over now.” One hand ran down my back to the bare skin between the bottom of the bolero and the waistband of the pantaloons. It simply lingered there. “My dear,” he said, “I need some time. The transition is too abrupt.”
I nodded. I wanted him, but I could wait. And there was something undeniably sweet about being pressed in his embrace like this, as though I were something he valued immeasurably. “Let us have dinner, then. The cook has gone home, but I have kept everything warm in chafing dishes.”
The dinner was rather better than the first one I’d had in this house. I had done the sauce with capers myself, rather than leaving it to the cook. We talked about books I had been reading and about the weather, nothing that touched on war or trouble, and I watched him slowly unwind. I poured him a second glass of wine, and a third, and he did not object as he usually did. It was not enough to make him drunk, but it did bring some color and animation back to his face. Afterward I made coffee with water I had kept hot over the fire.
He watched me kneeling on the hearthstone to pour it out, and smiled when I brought the press to the table. “My dear,” he said, “I doubt any man in France has ever been waited on so attentively by such a lovely houri.”
I had something clever to say, but when I opened my mouth it was not what came out. “I have missed you,” I said.
“Did you really? With all the amusements of Paris at your disposal?”
I shrugged. “I haven’t had any amusements. I know nobody, and I have nothing to do.”
Moreau took the coffee from me and drank it neat and scalding hot. “We will have to remedy that. I will not be leaving until March. There is ample time to introduce you to congenial society.”
“And what is congenial society?” I asked, sitting down and sipping at my own coffee. I put the cheese on the table, but he didn’t touch it.
“Politics,” he said. “Everything in Paris is about politics. And if you think war is a dangerous game, you have not seen Paris politics. Here, people lose their heads with alarming regularity. This is not your husband’s silly games. This is life or death.”
“So I had gathered,” I said. And I did not mention the house, the constant reminders around me of the losers.
“The Directory is little more than a year old. This tenuous coalition holds together a selection of people who hate each other, but who have three enemies in common. First, none of them want another popular insurrection of the sansculottes, the Paris mob who gave us the Committee of Public Safety and the Terror. Second, none of them want the Austrians to win this war and conquer France. And third, none of them want the Bourbon kings restored. You cannot imagine what life was like then, if this degree of risk seems preferable.”
“And what do you want?” I asked, putting my elbows on the table and cupping my coffee in both hands. “To be a Director? To be the Republic’s premier general? To be a wealthy man?”
Moreau smiled at me delightedly, as though I had surpassed his expectations. “I already am a wealthy man, my dear. There are army contracts and many other avenues of opportunity.”
“And the other two?”
“Why not?” He reached for the cheese knife. “There are no greater talents than mine among the Directors.”
I said nothing, for I did not know the Directors or their talents, beyond what I read in the papers.
“And you should have seen some of the members of the Committee of Public Safety. Pigs, my dear.”
“They say Barras is capable,” I said.
“Paul Barras is all charm and no substance,” Moreau said. “He hasn’t an idea in his head that wasn’t put there by public opinion. He couldn’t manage his own household if he didn’t have that little Creole that he bought from prison.” I raised an eyebrow, and he continued, “It’s said that he had a tendre for the Creole wife of an aristo. He let her husband go to the guillotine, and then went to her in prison and offered her a choice between his protection and the blade. So Joséphine de Beauharnais agreed, like a sensible woman. And she was a charming hostess. Eventually he grew tired of her and married her off.”
“That’s terrible,” I said quietly.
Moreau shrugged. “If I were you, I should rather pity the women without the interest of a man like Barras. They’re dead.”
I pushed my chair back from the table. “Is it always like this?”
He got up and crossed the room to stand beside me, to put his arms about my waist, against the bare flesh my bolero did not cover. “My dear, the world is a cruel place. We can either be swallowed up by it or master it. And you are not the sort to be swallowed up. You are a tiger, not some convenient prey.”
“And that is what you want,” I said. “Some other predator to stalk the drawing rooms with you, glorying in your victories.”
“Say, rather, sharing in our triumphs,” he said. “I can take you to the very top of Fortune’s Wheel.”
“Or together we can plunge into the depths,” I said, remembering the card with a shiver.
“Are you the woman I think you are?” Victor asked, tilting my chin up to him. “Are you willing to gamble?”
“Yes,” I said.
Three days later, I made my social debut on Victor Moreau’s arm. The ball was given by none other than Barras himself, and I was hard-pressed to find something to wear. As many dresses as I had bought, most of them were not quite formal enough. At last I settled on a draped and pleated gown of thinnest muslin, with a chemise of the same beneath it and a corset of the very softest possible material that would not show through. I wore my new sandals, and my hair was pinned atop my head in a style I fancied aped a bust of Agrippina the Younger. My fingernails were likewise cinnabar, and my lips matched them perfectly. I had no appropriate jewelry, so I did without, letting my cleavage be its own ornament. For a wrap, I wore one of the long stoles fashionable that year. It was sapphire blue, and had cost more than many dresses I had had in my old life. I thought I looked quite nice.
So did Victor, when he picked me up in his carriage pulled by a pair of matched grays. I had to ask him if he was sure he wanted me to arrive rumpled, as I had no way of repairing my hair in the carriage if he caused it to fall.
Instead, he reached onto the seat beside him and handed me a velvet-covered box. “I thought you would wear this,” he said.
I opened it. Inside was a broad gold collar enameled in red and blue, fitting close to the throat and fastening at the back.
“Victor!” I exclaimed.
He lifted it out of the box and fixed it about my neck. It was very heavy. The gold was not cheap at all.
“Is it a collar or an ornament?” I asked.
He smiled. “That is what everyone will be wondering tonight. Is she or isn’t she? Is it fashion or something else? Everyone will be talking about you, my dear.” His hand caressed my throat gently, just where the pulse jumped. “But you are not to provide relief to anyone without my permission. Is that understood?”
“I do,” I said breathlessly. “May I dance?”
His hand slid down to my breast, caressing my nipple through the thin cloth. “You may dance. You may even press your lips to theirs. But anything further, anywhere else those lovely lips of yours might stray, is beyond the pale. Unless I tell you that you may.”
“Or that I must,” I said, digging my nails into his coat sleeve.
Victor laughed, low and soft in his throat. His hand caressed the other side. “Or that you must.”
The carriage stopped w
ith a jerk. Victor looked out the window with some annoyance and straightened his coat. “We are here,” he said.
“General Victor Moreau and Madame St. Elme!” the footman announced. The ballroom was already growing crowded, and many people looked up when we entered. We did make a handsome pair.
Victor wore dark-blue trousers and coat, his lapels thick with gold braid, and a glorious tricolor sash weighted with bullion fringe about his waist. His dark hair shone and his compact form was set off to the best by my white gown, sapphire blue shawl, and golden hair. Beside him, the necklace might have been a beautiful ornament to complement his braid, or it might not have been.
Victor smiled a remarkably genuine smile as a lady approached. She was petite, barely coming to my chin, with a tight-lipped smile and a beautiful figure. Her gown was white, and I saw with some surprise that she was not wearing a chemise under it at all. The shadow of her pubic hair was quite visible.
“My dear lady,” Victor said, bending over her hand. “You cannot imagine the pleasure that I take in seeing you again. I had not expected that you would still be playing hostess for Paul.”
She smiled, and it was an expression of real warmth. “My dear Moreau, it’s a pleasure to have you back in town, rather than rusticating at the front. And of course I am always happy to assist Paul in any way I can. I fear that my husband has already had to return to the field, but he insisted that I should stay in Paris for my safety.”
“Well, we must please your husband,” Victor said. “And may I present my special friend, a lady recently come to Paris from Holland, Madame St. Elme? My dear, this is Madame Bonaparte.”
“Do call me Joséphine,” she said, taking my hand. “And tell me if it is true that you are a refugee from some terrible fate! We were all agog when we heard that Victor had been hiding you in Paris for several months and no one had seen you.”
“I have not been hiding,” I stammered. Half the room seemed to be looking at me. “I have simple tastes and have been living very quietly.”
“Ah!” She squeezed my hand and let it go. “I have simple tastes myself, but you would not know it to see this house tonight! Come, let me introduce you to some friends.”
I looked at Victor, but he had turned away to talk to two gentlemen in uniform. “I would be honored,” I said.
I had no idea who all the people were that I met. It seemed to me that there was an endless series of officers in tricolor sashes and ladies wearing white dresses. All of them said almost identical things. Somehow a glass of champagne appeared in my hand. It was cool and the ballroom was so very warm. I drank it very quickly.
Madame Bonaparte gestured for a footman. She drank her glass with her head down.
“Your husband is with the Army of Italy?” I asked. I wagered he wasn’t on the Rhine or I would have heard Moreau speak of him often.
“Yes,” she said. “He has command there now. I do not think the Directors want him in Paris.” She looked up at me and her eyes were unexpectedly candid. “Successful generals too close to home make them nervous.”
“Ah,” I said. “Should I take that as a warning?”
“You should,” she said. “If you are new to Paris, then you have no idea—” She broke off as a lovely blonde approached us. “Hello, Thérèse! That gown is absolutely beautiful! Where in the world did you get it?”
Her blond hair was rolled on top of her head in a very strange design, and her gown was of thin lavender gauze, clasped with pins in the shape of dragonflies on her shoulders, leaving her shoulders and arms entirely bare. It swept to the floor in glistening folds, and it was perfectly clear that she wore absolutely nothing beneath it. The shifts of shiny material across her uncorseted breasts were fascinating to see.
“Do you like it? I thought I should be the perfect Messalina tonight!” She looked at my hair critically. “And I see you’ve found us an Agrippina. Unless I mistake the hair.”
“Yes,” I said.
“I suppose that makes me your rival,” she said. “Beware. I like to win.”
“Thérèse, for heaven’s sake,” Joséphine said. “You haven’t the slightest interest in Victor Moreau.”
“Oh.” She put her head to one side. Her lips were bright red, and her eyes were cool and calculating. “No, I haven’t really. I understand he likes whips and chains.”
“Bah,” said Joséphine. “And where you heard that, I can’t imagine.”
Thérèse’s eyes lingered on my collar. Then she raised her eyes to mine, a little smile playing around her lips. I felt myself blushing. “You can be so naïve, Joséphine. You think every man plays one note, like that little Corsican of yours. We should ask our new friend if what they whisper about Moreau is true. Do you have a first name?”
“Ida,” I said. “And please be free with it. But I would not dream of discussing Victor in that way. He is the kindest and most gallant of protectors.”
“Of course he is,” Joséphine said firmly. “I must go help Paul greet the foreigners before the music starts. Behave yourself, Thérèse.”
“I always do,” she said.
The music began, but she did not move, only stood at my side. Couples were taking to the floor in the most scandalous dance I had ever seen, dancing nearly in an embrace, with his left arm about her waist.
“The waltz,” Thérèse said. “I don’t dance.” Her beauty was almost too polished. There was something about her that reminded me of Victor. Something of her reserve, something in the way she looked at me knowingly.
“Oh,” I said. I looked about for Victor, but he was already on his way to claim me.
Moments later, he led me onto the floor. I did not know the dance, but he led well. He leaned close to my ear and whispered, “I see Thérèse wasted no time.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. I was trying not to trip. This dance involved a lot of being propelled backward.
He laughed softly. “You must let her seduce you. But not too quickly. That will take all the fun out of it for her. And it will please her to think she has won something from me.”
I felt myself flushing to the roots of my hair. “She is . . . like you?” I asked.
“In some ways,” he said. “And in others, not at all. She plays for vanity.”
And you play for power, I thought. Power, and perhaps solace.
Winter in Paris
I was certainly not bored over the winter. While Victor did not spend every night with me, several times a week we went out somewhere and ended the evening at the house in Rue de Saint-Dominique. Sometimes it was parties and balls. All of the Directors and the leaders of government seemed to feel it was necessary to hold constant entertainments to make up for the austerities of the last few years, so the year’s end was filled with a round of one after the other.
We also went to the theater. I had never been before, and I was utterly entranced. I ignored the intrigues among the spectators and the running from one box to another to sit speechless, my fan clasped between my hands, watching the action on the stage. Victor thought this very amusing.
One evening, after we had returned from an evening of Racine, I was trying to remember all the lines I had heard, to capture them. I had a quick memory, and some of the better parts did stick with me. I turned to Moreau as he came in removing his cravat and pointed my fan at him coquettishly.
“ ‘He had your way of standing, your body, your face. That same noble blush colored his face when to our Crete he traversed the seas to find the daughters of Minos.’ ” I said the last words walking around him, as though considering the effect of my words on a young Hippolyte.
Victor caught my wrists as I came around. “You would make a lovely Phèdre, my dear. But you do know she copulated with animals, don’t you?”
“I think that’s Pasiphaë,” I said.
He pulled me rather roughly against him, and I gasped. His cravat twisted around my hands, and he dragged them over my head—which had the effect of raising my breasts almost out of
the top of my gown. Victor laughed. The color was rising in my face. “You know, it takes almost nothing to arouse you, my dear. Just a few heated words and a bit of humiliation.” He lifted my skirts and pulled my dress and chemise over my head in one piece.
I struggled a little with the folds for form’s sake.
Victor shook his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t think I’m going to give you the satisfaction of making you do anything.”
I stood there trembling and naked, waiting.
He smiled. “Lie down on the bed and pleasure yourself.”
My eyes widened and I didn’t move.
“Did you hear me?” he said softly. “I told you to lie down right there and spread your legs. I shall arrange you like a statue.”
I lay down. My heart was beating like a drum. Carefully, lightly, he fluffed my hair over my shoulders. “That’s better. Now open your legs.”
He caressed the inside of my thigh. “That makes a prettier line.”
Of course everything was completely exposed, and he made a show of stroking my lips softly. “Now put your hand there. Just as if you were alone.”
I did. The jolts of pleasure that went through me were extreme.
“Move your hand just so. I want to watch you.” His face was rapt and I could see the passion rising in him, under the leash of control.
I moved my hand, succumbing to the growing warmth.
“Like that,” he said. “Lovely. I think I will have you sculpted like that. As Aphrodite, perhaps. But everyone who sees it will know it’s you. Do you want the entire world to see your charms?”
“You wouldn’t,” I said.
“Are you sure of that?”
His voice was as much the spur as my fingers. I closed my eyes, losing track of everything else. I heard some small movements, but paid them no heed.