by Jo Graham
I took a step back. “I do not plan to be in a position to know,” I said.
Instead of being insulted, she smiled. “I see that Victor has taught you saucy protest. Are you entirely his creature?”
“I am his friend,” I said. “I do not belong to him.”
“Don’t you?” Thérèse spread her hands. “You live in his house, wear the clothes he buys, eat his food. You are as much a pet as my little dog. Only prettier and more expensive.”
I put my head to the side and looked at her. “And this is supposed to make me like you? I’m unclear on how insulting me is supposed to make me want to sleep with you.”
She laughed, a clear, silvery laugh. “Oh dear! Victor does have more than he bargained for in you, doesn’t he? Clearly I’m trying the wrong tack. Does he woo you with sweet words and presents? I imagine he’s good at that, hypocrite that he is.”
“He is kind to me and treats me with respect,” I said. “Whether or not that is hypocrisy, I don’t know.”
She opened her fan. “Of course it is, my dear. You don’t have anything he wants. Victor is a master at flattery and idle banter, among other things. Don’t tell me that you take his lavish compliments seriously?”
“I don’t,” I said, but it hurt. No one had ever told me I was lovely before, nor treated me as though my every wish were important to him.
“He is a man. And underneath it all, they are the same. They’re pricks.” She raised her fan to her lips, pursed provocatively. “And they all want the same thing. Think about it,” she said, and left the room.
I had sat down and was shuffling the cards over and over when Victor came in a few minutes later. “That’s the last of them,” he said. “Thérèse practically had to be carried out to her carriage. I thought she was planning to stay all night.”
“She was,” I said, “with me.”
Victor came and put his hand on my shoulder. “So that’s how it is.”
I nodded.
“You seem very downcast for a woman who just had a great social triumph,” he said. “Is something troubling you?”
“No,” I said.
“Thérèse?”
It was a question I could answer. “She wanted to strike me. Does she do that? For pleasure, I mean?”
“And it does not appeal to you?” I felt him bend over me, his warmth against my back through the thin silk of my dress.
I shook my head.
“Nor to me,” he said. “Different tastes. There are women who like that kind of mastery. It’s never particularly appealed to me. People who have to enforce their will with whips usually can’t control themselves. I have no respect for that kind of weakness.”
“And yet you like me to lose control,” I said slowly. “To be entirely without pretense or thought.”
“That’s different,” he said. His hand was warm on my shoulder.
“Because I am a woman?” I asked.
“My dear, there is nothing weak about you,” he said. “Nothing whatsoever. I am quite aware that a man who tames a tiger has only himself to blame if it bites his hand off.”
I turned my head so that my cheek rested against his hand. “Victor, I don’t want to hurt you. And I can’t imagine that I could. So I don’t understand what she wants.”
“Who knows? To score off me? To get you into her bedchamber? She is the original Marquise de Merteuil.”
“And what am I?” I asked him, and was appalled to find myself almost crying. “Nothing, really. A woman with no future and no past. My husband has filed papers to have me extradited to Holland on the grounds that I am mad!”
“Is that all?” Victor drew me to my feet, his arm about my waist. “My dear, you have nothing to fear from that oaf. I promised you that you would be safe here, and I keep my word. This extradition will come to nothing, documents misplaced somewhere, a lady who cannot be found. After all, who has ever heard of Madame Ringeling?”
I let out a deep breath. I did not like to be afraid, but this frightened me to the core. “You promise?”
“I promise,” Victor said gravely. “You have nothing to fear from these papers. I will take care of you.”
Moreau left for the front two weeks later. The morning that he was to leave, we breakfasted together at my house, looking out over the garden. It had not quite begun to bloom.
“I wish I were coming with you,” I said.
“My dear, it will be far too dangerous. We are not going into garrison, but on the offensive,” he said. “And besides, I need you here in Paris.”
I nodded. “I understand. And what am I to do about Thérèse? She will be all over me the moment you leave town.”
He raised his coffee to his lips and did not look at me. “Sleep with her.”
“What?”
“Sleep with her,” he said. “If you want her to lose interest, that’s the fastest way.” Moreau took up his knife and spread his bread with butter. “The more you protest, the harder she will pursue. Simply sleep with her and disappoint her, and she will leave you alone. And you will be free to move in society and politics as you want, one more person on the long list of lovers she has had.”
“Does that list include you?” I asked.
“Thérèse and I would not suit,” he said.
“And you don’t care if I sleep with her?” I was trying very hard to keep my voice light and sophisticated.
“She’s a woman, my dear,” Victor said, looking surprised. “It hardly counts.”
“I see. So you object to another man—”
“I object strenuously,” he said. “You are not to go flaunting your beauty to any other men while I am gone, or to have any other lover. I know I shall not hear the faintest word of reproach about your behavior when I return.”
“And you will have no other women?” I raised an eyebrow. “That’s curious.”
“That is entirely different,” Victor said. “You can hardly expect a man to go without for eight months.”
“Ah, but I am to amuse myself with Thérèse, who is a woman and doesn’t count!” I said heatedly. “That’s a bit hypocritical from you, Victor!”
He stood up and walked around the table to me, putting his hands on my shoulders. “My dear, hypothetical Sapphic interludes aside, must we quarrel at the moment of departure?”
“No,” I said, and stood up. I would miss him bitterly, hypocrite or no. I would miss his dark eyes and his cynical smile and his hands everywhere. “No, let’s not quarrel,” I said, so we didn’t.
I was right that Moreau had hardly left town before I had an invitation from Thérèse Tallien—not for some intimate tête-à-tête at her house, but to go riding three days later at seven in the morning, with a plan to break our fast at the Dairy at Mont Parnasse, a very rustic retreat.
Bearing in mind what Victor had said about refusing her only encouraging her, I sent word that I would be delighted to join her. I also made certain to look as dowdy as possible on the day, or at least entirely unlike the woman she had seen.
Toward that end, I got out Charles’s clothes, entirely neglected since the end of last summer. Instead of a fashionable habit, I wore worn brown trousers, a man’s shirt with a coat of dark-blue wool, and a brown hat with no plume at all. Heavy gloves and boots completed the ensemble, and my hair was drawn back in a severe old-fashioned queue.
My surprise was complete when I met her and found that she was dressed much the same.
No one could ever believe that her full-breasted figure was that of a young man, but she wore an old slouch hat over her glorious hair, and her thighs were encased in breeches of soft gray doeskin. Her linen was spotless and her coat was well cut, with soutaches of braid like a hussar’s. She laughed when she saw me.
“Ida! I should have guessed that you would be dressed like a veritable Amazon!”
“And you,” I said, failing to conceal my surprise.
Thérèse shrugged. “One cannot wear frippery all the time. It’s a pleasure, and at the sa
me time a dreadful burden. How free men must be, who can do as they wish!”
“I have often felt the same way,” I said.
“Shall we ride, then?”
“Of course,” I replied.
She was a surprisingly good rider. As she rode ahead of me at a well-mannered trot, I could not help but admire her fine seat and the way the gentleman’s trousers molded closely to the rounded curves of her posterior. I had not seriously thought of it before.
My Inner Moreau objected, reminding me strenuously of the girls Charles had danced with at the spas, of the pleasure of seeing a young girl’s rapturous eyes raised to me, of the sweet curve of breasts above the neckline of a gown.
Such things are not done, I thought.
Perhaps here they are, my Inner Moreau replied. All of these lovely women so free with their affections . . . And it is hardly cheating if your lover told you to. After all, you must have something to console yourself all summer. Why not try it?
It was in this welter of emotion that we climbed the hill. As we passed a bunch of poor hovels, a gaggle of ragged children ran out. Thérèse halted her horse and smiled down, leaning out of the saddle to give them alms, which they caught in their upturned hands.
Seeing my expression, she removed her hat and smiled ruefully. “The dear children,” she said. “I often come this way, and I never forget to bring something for those who are less fortunate. I know that piety and charity are out of fashion, but we are not being women of fashion here, and I must be who I truly am.”
“Your feelings do you credit,” I said, with Charles’s best gallant bow from the saddle.
She smiled and chirruped to her horse.
I rode behind. Lady, I thought, I am not stupid, and I have read Dangerous Liaisons too.
We breakfasted in the Dairy, a former barn that was now an inn. The food was presented on rude trestle tables, and we sat on benches looking out at the perfect spring morning. The butter had been churned that same morning and was sweet as cream, and the bread was warm from the oven. A crock holding the first wildflowers sat on the table. It could not have been more different from my breakfasts with Victor.
Rather than being clever and biting, Thérèse was the model of kindness, telling sweet and complimentary stories about various mutual acquaintances, all calculated to show our friends as generous and wonderful people. Joséphine Bonaparte in particular was the recipient of her good humor.
“She is the kindest, dearest lady,” Thérèse said. “And when I consider the crosses she has borne! Her inner strength makes me desire to emulate her in every way. Considering the tragedies in her life makes me regard myself as very fortunate.”
“I understand she narrowly escaped the guillotine,” I said, stirring cream into my coffee.
“She did,” Thérèse said. “At the price of her self-respect.”
I did not think it politic to say anything public against Barras, so I said nothing.
“But she saved her two dear children,” Thérèse said. “And what mother could fail to act as she did?”
“I didn’t know that she had children,” I said.
“A boy and a girl. I suppose her son is eleven or twelve now, and her daughter is a few years younger.” Thérèse dropped her voice and leaned closer over the table. “She saved three other children besides her own from the blade—the little Auguié girls, daughters of a friend of hers. She made Barras release them to her custody. They were eight, six, and four years old when they were thrown into prison to await execution.”
I stirred my coffee hard, hoping that no emotion showed. I suspected that it did.
“They are the most darling children,” Thérèse said. “She loves them as her own daughters. They are all at school now with Joséphine’s girl, Hortense, at Madame Campan’s. How that penniless young general pays for them all is a mystery to me!”
How indeed? I wondered.
Thérèse leaned close and whispered confidentially, “You know that all of her friends urged her not to marry him, even her lawyer. A young man with nothing to his name but a cloak and a sword! But Paul Barras wanted it, and what he wants, he gets.”
“Why should he want his own mistress to marry a penniless young general?” I asked.
Thérèse smiled at me guilelessly. “To bind him more closely, of course. The Directory would already have fallen into ruins if not for Bonaparte and his artillery. He fired grapeshot into the Paris mob when they tried to storm the assembly.”
“Oh,” I said, trying not to imagine the consequences of that.
“You are tenderhearted,” Thérèse said. When I looked up, her eyes were not calculating, but rather clear and penetrating. “Nothing good can come of that.”
“So Victor says. We live in the modern world, and there is no use for tender hearts or human kindness. We are savages in beautiful clothes.”
“And you would prefer the world of popes and kings?”
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I can’t imagine a world I would like.”
“Then it’s as well you don’t have the ordering of it. What do you really want? Power? Money? Pleasure?”
“I don’t know,” I said. Certainly all those things were pleasant. I liked having nice things. It was very satisfactory to have the power to order my own life somewhat. But I had no desire to rule, even through Victor. I had no words for what I truly wanted.
Perhaps Thérèse would have said more, but the innkeeper came to the table to offer us a cut of his beautiful Bavarian ham. I accepted with alacrity, but she refused. “I do not eat meat,” she said, “and haven’t since my girlhood. I realize that refraining makes very little difference in the world, but I cannot bring myself to eat the flesh of animals who have been raised for slaughter.”
“Truly?” I asked.
She nodded. “You may ask my friends if you doubt me. Meat never passes my lips.”
I blinked at her.
Thérèse put her hand over mine on the table, a beautiful spontaneous gesture. “Perhaps you have misjudged me just a little, Ida? Allowed Victor’s prejudices to cloud your own? He does not love me for certain reasons that are private between us, of which honor forbids me to speak.”
“Perhaps I do,” I said. “I beg your pardon.” Perhaps I had misjudged her somewhat. Her hand under mine was very warm and smooth.
Dangerous Acquaintances
Moreau wrote to me regularly and punctually. Twice weekly he sent me two or three pages. Ever conscious of his dignity, there was nothing in his letters that would have aroused sensation if they were printed in the papers or intercepted by the enemy. They were affectionate, polite, and rather formal.
My dear,
I have taken command of the Army of the Rhine once more, and I have been pleased to see the splendid condition of our men. We are fit and ready to face the enemy at any time.
I trust that you are well. The spring months often lend themselves to chills and colds, and I hope that you have not succumbed to any of the myriad illnesses that seem to circulate at this time. I am sorry that I am not there to see your lovely garden in full bloom. I hope that your flowers will give you much pleasure. I cannot, myself, imagine how all the things you named look, or what their display may be, but it gives me vast pleasure to imagine your excitement and enjoyment of these spring blooms.
I have ordered additional bath linens for my house. Also, I am having new curtains done for the drawing room. I trust that you will oversee the installation of these domestic comforts in my absence. I am sure that your impeccable taste will assure that all these appointments are both appropriate and well crafted. I greatly appreciate your assistance in this matter.
You will no doubt be hearing my name in public circles very shortly, regarding a gentleman of our mutual acquaintance. I recall that you mentioned that you did not think much of him when you met in Holland. I fear that you were right in your assessment of his character, though I would not have believed him guilty of such perfidy had I not seen the eviden
ce with my own eyes. Though in the past I considered him both a gentleman and a friend, I am now forced to revise my thinking. But you have heard of all this, no doubt, through the proper channels.
I shall pass what time is not spent in martial endeavors thinking of you.
Your servant,
Victor Moreau
What in the world? I racked my brains to think of every gentleman I had ever told Moreau that I didn’t like. I didn’t have long to wonder. The next day the papers blared the truth—General Moreau had captured correspondence between General Pichegru and the Austrians on the twenty-second of April. Moreau had quietly placed the go-betweens under arrest and sent the incriminating papers on to Paris. Pichegru had been arrested for treason.
It was true I had not liked Pichegru when I met him in Holland with Jan. But then, I had also not liked Moreau.
All of that seemed so far away now, so distant, as if it had happened to someone else. Sitting in my lovely garden, branches swaying in sweet breezes, I thought that it had. That had been Madame Ringeling, a mousy little creature who had no knowledge of the world and who yearned for nothing except her husband’s affection. I was Madame St. Elme, consort of one of the most powerful men in France.
Of course, there were those who whispered that Moreau had been in the conspiracy with Pichegru and had turned on him when it became clear that the émigrés who claimed they could broker a peace with Austria were lying. That Moreau had thrown Pichegru to the wolves before Pichegru could throw him.
I didn’t believe it. Victor carried on many intrigues, and I would not have put betraying a confederate beyond him, but I did not think he would treat with the Austrians. He had no love for the émigrés and the old crown. And I did not think him capable of treason.
Thérèse, of course, believed the opposite.
We often rode together in the mornings before most ladies of fashion were awake. She had given orders to her staff to admit me at any hour, and I often came to her house before she was even up. We would breakfast at some ungodly hour before our morning ride, I in my men’s riding clothes, she in her peignoir of white gauze, before our ride.