The General's Mistress

by Jo Graham

  “Victor is very clever,” she said approvingly. “You must know that.”

  “He is clever,” I said, “but he is no traitor. He loves France, and he would do nothing to harm her.”

  Thérèse handed me the cream for my coffee. “Ida, I know that you wish to give him every benefit of the doubt, but you are naïve in this. I know that you think I have nothing good to say of him, and that he has nothing good to say of me. But in this I think your reason is clouded by your love. You do love him, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do,” I said quickly. Her keen eyes were on me, though she feigned nonchalance. “There is every reason I hold him in great esteem and approbation.”

  “Esteem and approbation?” Her eyes widened. “That’s not a very passionate declaration.”

  “I don’t really want to discuss Victor,” I said, looking away. “Of course I find him wildly attractive.”

  “But do you love him?”

  “Yes,” I said. I poured more coffee into my half-full cup.

  “Forgive me for asking,” she said, and her voice was soft. “I suppose I am still upset with Victor for getting us off on the wrong foot. I do want to be your friend.”

  I looked at her. “What?”

  Thérèse toyed with the ribbons on her negligée. “Victor told me that you were a woman who enjoyed games of passion, and that the more violent and abasing they were, the more you preferred them. That you wanted a lover who could rouse in you the strongest and most humiliating instincts, who treated you with the most utter disdain. I took what I thought was his good advice and succeeded in doing no more than offending you. Which I am sure was what he intended. After all, once you had formed such a bad opinion of me, you would never be moved to seek my friendship, much less any more intimate relationship.”

  I felt the blood rush to my face, and my hands shook. The idea that Victor had casually discussed our encounters with her—with others!—shocked me to the core. I could imagine him dismissing our passions with a shrug and a smile, gossiping with fashionable gentlemen about the most intimate sensations we had enjoyed. About me. Talking about me like his whore. Telling other people what I said, about the games I thought were between us alone.

  “Ida, are you well?”

  For a moment I had almost forgotten Thérèse. “Fine,” I said.

  “I hope you don’t think that I have repeated his comments,” she said. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “No,” I said. “Of course I don’t think that.”

  But others would. All over town. Every man I met was imagining me as Victor Moreau’s collared dog.

  Thérèse leaned over and took my hand. “Ida, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you didn’t know. Victor talked about you constantly. I suppose he was so taken with you that he didn’t realize how it sounded. Men do that when they’re in love.”

  “In love?” I exclaimed, more sharply than I had intended. “Victor does not love me.”

  “Of course he does,” Thérèse said. “I’ve never seen him make a fool of himself over anyone before. And he makes a perfect idiot of himself over you. Rushing about buying things to please you, dancing attendance on you at the theater, talking about you constantly. I suppose he just got carried away. And no doubt it was jealousy that made him advise me to say things that he knew would anger you. A man can shoot a rival who is a man, but what would he do with me? Call me out?”

  “You are not a rival,” I said. My chest hurt and I was confused. “I may call you a friend, I hope.”

  “Of course you may,” Thérèse said. “You can always lay your troubles on me.”

  I don’t remember the rest of the day. It was afternoon when I sat down to pen a reply to Victor, and the quill shook in my hand with both anger and humiliation.

  Victor,

  I cannot imagine what you were thinking to talk to Thérèse Tallien about our intimate relations.

  I tore the paper up and began again.

  Victor,

  If you were here I would throw something at you, but since you are not I shall have to resort to words. I can’t believe

  I put my head down on the table, then sat up and started anew.

  Victor,

  I don’t know why you did that. I don’t know what’s true. I don’t know if you told her or not. I can’t see how she would know if you didn’t, but if you did then why? Were you so jealous of someone I had not even spoken with? Why? And why did you tell me to sleep with her? Is this all some depraved game, because if so I don’t think I like this part and you told me to tell you when I didn’t like it and this is something I don’t like because I don’t know what’s true and what isn’t and I hate this and I wish you were here so I could kill you. And then you could explain.

  Not that you ever do. You never tell me the truth so I know it’s true. And I wouldn’t know you were lying to me if you were. And I don’t know why she said you loved me. You don’t say that. You’ve never said you did. And I can’t. I just can’t. I mean, I want you and I need you but I don’t feel that way and I can’t even though I should because why not but I don’t. I loved Jan and he was a piece of shit but I did, and I can’t love you even though you are the best thing that ever happened to me and I need you so much that sometimes I wake up and I want you so badly that I have to do it and pretend that you’re there and you’re watching me.

  Victor,

  I wish you were here because

  Dear Victor,

  I received your letter today and I am pleased to hear that you are in good health. I have taken care of the domestic details that you recommended to me, including your order with Maille. I will take care of the curtains as well.

  I read in the papers of your uncovering the plot concerning General Pichegru. I am deeply saddened to hear that this gentleman was guilty of such heinous crimes! I had not liked him, but I had not imagined him capable of this kind of perfidy and betrayal.

  The garden is lovely. I wish you were here to enjoy it with me. I am out every day walking and finding each new wonderful plant. If you were here, you could enjoy it with me and I would find no greater pleasure than to be with you in this peaceful place.

  I have been riding frequently with Madame Tallien, who is kind and has taken a great interest in me. I am of two minds concerning your instructions, and I fear that I am confused by the society in which I move. As you know, I have not your experience in such matters.

  Nor your legendary discretion, apparently.

  With Warmest Sentiments,

  Ida St. Elme

  It was the last letter that I mailed.

  It took two weeks for a reply. Of course, I received other letters from him in the meantime, dispatched before mine could have reached him.

  My dear,

  Have I offended you in some way? Your last note was short, and I am mystified by your reference to my discretion, and to my instructions concerning your friendship with Madame Tallien.

  I hope that you are not growing too close to this lady, for her character is not irreproachable. May you be guided by me in this and heed my advice to only extend your friendship so far! Remember, I am your protector and more experienced in these matters than you, who are very young and, as you know, an innocent in the sense of the world. I have your best interests at heart always.

  Your servant,

  Victor Moreau

  “Innocent!” I threw his letter down on the table and threw my riding gloves after it.

  “‘Remember I am your protector!’ Bastard!” I went around the table and picked up his letter for the pleasure of throwing it again. “‘Extend your friendship only so far!’ So I should sleep with her, but make sure not to enjoy it? Sleep with her, but only once? You sanctimonious . . .” Words failed me.

  The next morning I went to Thérèse’s house just at dawn and was admitted as usual. I wore my riding costume, gray doeskin trousers and a blue coat with silver buttons, a perfect lace-trimmed cravat.

  “Madame is still in her boudoir,” I was
informed.

  “I will go up,” I said airily. After all, I usually did. I opened her door and went in.

  Thérèse was not only in her boudoir, she was sound asleep in her bed, which was gilt and carved with cherubs. She slept on her side, her long golden hair spread across the pillow behind her, and the sheet draped loosely over her. It was a warm summer morning. She was wearing nothing beneath the sheet. I sat down on the edge of the bed.

  Thérèse stretched. “Ida?” she murmured.

  The stretch exposed one perfect white breast, the areola of her nipple pink against her pale skin. Her arm extended behind her head, and the lines of her flesh were lovely indeed.

  I bent and took her nipple in my mouth. It tasted of warmth and salt.

  She squeaked.

  I took my hand, still attired in Charles’s dove-gray riding glove, and put it lightly over her mouth. “Don’t scream,” I said in Charles’s best cultured voice. “Women who admit just anyone to their bedchambers are inviting trouble.”

  Her eyes widened. With my other hand I brushed the sheet back, baring her in all her glory, rounded thighs milky against the sheets.

  “Charming, I confess,” I said, raking her up and down with my eyes.

  She bit down on her lips, her eyes bright.

  I bent and kissed her breast again, gathering it in my hand a bit roughly, kneading it and pressing her hard nipple.

  Thérèse made a long, low noise in her throat.

  “You mustn’t scream,” I said, “if I take my hand away. You wouldn’t want your servants to come rushing in here and see you like this, now, would you?”

  She shook her head, and I could see the hungry smile, the faint flutter at her throat.

  “Be silent,” I said, “or you will be sorry.” I opened her legs with my gloved hand. Her hair was brown, giving the lie to her golden tresses above. The seam of my suede glove brushed against the inside of her thigh, and her hips lifted off the bed. I took my hand from her mouth and pressed it against her stomach, right above the mountain of Venus, pressing down with the heel of my hand against the womb inside. Of course she rocked her hips upward, parting them slightly, a deep exhalation coming from her.

  I laughed low in my throat. Her lips were pink and full, growing distended with blood. I ran my gloved hand along them.

  Her back arched.

  “Not a sound,” I said. “Not a sound from you. Or I will make you very, very sorry.”

  Thérèse bit down on her lip.

  “Charming,” I said. My gloved hand toyed with her pearl. It was quite large and I felt it swelling under my attention. My other hand still pressed down, catching her in the unbearable place between.

  It was hard to keep my voice conversational. I could feel the inseam of my trousers very sharply of a sudden, rubbing in a sensitive spot. Charles had more self-discipline than Ida, however. “Turn over,” I said.

  She made a small whimpering noise.

  “Turn over,” I said more insistently. “Do you think you can flaunt your charms as you do and not pay the price? On your hands and knees.”

  She turned stiffly, for I did not remove my fingers from that intimate place. Her ass was rounded and pale, and as she sank onto her knees I could see every part. I ran my hand down her back to the top of the cleft, and she arched her back, moaning. I had counted on this. With my forefingers still on her pearl, I thrust my gloved thumb inside her.

  She moaned.

  I took my other hand and slapped her hard across the bottom. “Did I not tell you to be quiet?”

  She whimpered, and I took that as an invitation. My hand came down upon her again hard, twice, three times. Each time she moved. Each time my thumb thrust into her propelled by her own motion, the seam of my glove caressing her pearl.

  I struck her again. I could see the red marks of my hand on her white skin.

  Her whole body lifted and she gave a vast shudder. I felt her spasm around my thumb, the embrace of that intimate part giving against me. And then she collapsed into the bedsheets.

  My body was throbbing. I could not let go. I could see my gray gloves damp from her body.

  Thérèse rolled over, and her eyes were like a cat’s. “Ummm, I had no idea,” she purred, “that taunting such a handsome young gentleman was so dangerous.”

  “It is, hussy,” I said. “I hope that I have taught you a proper lesson.” My voice was shaking.

  “You have,” she said. “But perhaps you can make it more clear by requiring me to pleasure you.”

  I undid my trousers as though I were a man, unbuttoning the sides and pulling them down to expose enough. I knelt over her face. “Do it, then,” I said. “You have a tongue, bitch.”

  Thérèse laughed.

  Games of Passion

  Over the next seven or eight weeks, I saw quite a lot of Thérèse, but we didn’t honestly talk very much. Two or three times a week I would come by her house early in the morning and awaken her while the room was still cool and light. It was not a surprise after that first time, but she never failed to respond as though it were—the careless woman of fashion who had provoked a man she should not have, who had played with fire one time too many. She never seemed to tire of Charles’s dandy manners and lethal smile. Then we would breakfast and sometimes go for a ride, though in the heat of August we gave up on the riding. She would go about her extensive toilette, and I would go home before it was too hot.

  Of course I was now invited to all her dinners and entertainments, but I saw little of her there—the hostess cannot spend a great deal of time with any guest. I spent my evenings in repartee and cards, winning money off gentlemen who thought a lady must be a dunce and whom décolletage robbed of their wits. I did not play for much money. The pleasure was in winning hand after hand off young men who should know better.

  Gossip spreads fast. The third week in September I was at a party, playing cards and listening with half an ear to things around me, when I caught Moreau’s name in passing. Two gentlemen at a nearby table were talking about him. I glanced about unobtrusively. One was a civilian, the other in uniform, though I did not recognize him.

  “. . . will be dismissed any day now. I’ve seen the orders myself.”

  The civilian shrugged. “Moreau took Stuttgart and then gave it back, what do you expect?”

  “Moreau retreated because Archduke Charles was breathing down his neck. What was he supposed to do? Take Stuttgart with him?” the officer countered.

  “He’s mediocre and he can’t bring off a decisive battle. It’s time he stepped down and someone more aggressive had the command. Someone who will carry the battle to the Austrians, not just run round and round over the same territory for years on end.” The civilian got up from the card table. “I’m for the necessary. Back in a bit.”

  I watched him go. Moreau would be dismissed. . . .

  I did not even have time to write him. The next day I had a note from Victor that was both brief and to the point.

  My dear,

  I am arriving in Paris within a day or two. Please make certain that my house is in order and that my staff is prepared for my arrival.

  Victor

  I went to his house immediately and began ordering his staff around. They were, naturally, thrown into utter confusion by his return a full two months early. The floors were unpolished, the covers had to be removed from the furniture in the public rooms downstairs, and all the decoration needed dusting. The silver was in want of polishing and the windows on the second floor needed washing. Before it was finished, Victor arrived.

  I heard his carriage pulling up at the door just at dusk, and I ran down the stairs and out to greet him, my hair still tied under a scarf that I had worn to keep the dirt off while the footmen were cleaning the hall chandelier.

  Victor got out and looked at me quizzically. “My dear, what are you doing here?”

  “Cleaning your house,” I said. He looked very tired and he was rumpled from the road.

  “Yourse
lf?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “But I came to make certain that it was done well and in a timely fashion. I did not want you to come home to a cold house.”

  “I doubt it would be cold,” he said. It was, in fact, a very warm day at the end of September, and felt more like August.

  “Figuratively,” I said. “But I did not know you would be here tonight or I would have ordered the cook to prepare. Would you prefer to go out?”

  Victor shook his head and walked up the steps to me. The sun had just set and the sky had turned a deep and exotic blue. “And face society tonight? I suppose it will be no better another day. All Paris knows that I have been relieved of my command by now, I suppose.”

  I took his arm. “And no doubt they are incensed by such unfairness! You have done the unlikely on the Rhine, and it is no credit to anyone to expect you to do the impossible! I am wild with fury at this slight to you, Victor! To imagine that there is anyone who could possibly do better . . .”

  “I am glad you think so, my dear. But you are no expert on military matters, as you well know. And the mob loves to blame someone. Today I am the goat. Tomorrow it will be another. What goes up comes down.”

  I leaned against his shoulder there on the street. “Victor, come with me. Your house is in disorder, and there is no supper. Let us go somewhere and dine, and then you can return to the comfort of my house for the evening and give your servants time to finish.”

  “If it would not trouble you, perhaps we could just dine at your house.”

  I nodded. “As warm as it is, a cold collation in the garden might be the most pleasant thing.”

  An hour later, the stars were appearing. We ate under the trees in my garden, moths flying at and bouncing off the paper lanterns in the tree above. There was cool white wine and pâté de campagne, olives and watercress and a little salad, cheese and bread and lovely fresh pears and a delicious crème de marrons. The night was quiet. The sounds of insects were louder than those of distant streets. The stars came out bright in a flawless sky.