The General's Mistress

by Jo Graham

“Not quite twenty,” I said, shaving nearly two years off my age. I gave him Charles’s birth date, December 28, 1778.

  He shrugged. “You’re too old. If you want to get to the top, you have to start at twelve or thirteen. You really need to just face it. Acting is an art. There’s a lot more to learn than just being beautiful.”

  “I know,” I said. I wasn’t angry with him for telling me the truth. I looked down toward the stage. There was no one reciting right now, and a portly man was talking with the director. I recognized him. I had seen him at dozens of parties last year. I gestured toward him with my chin. “Isn’t that Monsieur Chaptal, the Minister of Home Affairs? I wonder what he’s doing here.”

  Delacroix nodded. “Home Affairs oversees the theater censors. Chaptal comes around now and then to look busy. And to look at the girls, of course. He doesn’t know anything about theaters and he never bothers us much.”

  “Good,” I said. “Because there’s more than one way to get a part.” I stood up, brushing the wrinkles from my dress.

  “Ida, don’t—” Delacroix began, but I was already walking down toward the front.

  “Good afternoon, Monsieur Chaptal,” I began, smiling and inserting myself next to him. “I thought that I recognized you! I would know you anywhere!”

  He glanced at me, and his eyes widened. “Madame St. Elme! Good heavens! I had no idea you were here! I used to see you all the time, but it’s been months now!”

  I shrugged prettily. “Well, you know I always used to come with Moreau, but since I don’t see him anymore, I have no opportunity to see you either.”

  “Not with Moreau? How can that be?”

  I smiled up at him. “Gentlemen’s fancies are capricious, my dear sir. We fragile barks are merely buffeted by their charms, and then left to wallow in the cruel waves.”

  “Can it be that you are without a protector?” Chaptal’s face was florid with scarce-concealed delight.

  “Unfortunately, it’s so,” I said. “So I am trying to earn my bread in the theater. But I haven’t been able to even gain the opportunity to make my debut.”

  Chaptal looked at the director, his eyes wide. “Can it be? There is not even so much as a bit part for Madame St. Elme? A woman of her grace and wit?”

  The director pursed his lips. “We have many qualified young ladies auditioning, and some must be disappointed.”

  “Well, of course some must be,” Chaptal said. “But surely not her. I mean, what’s to stop her?”

  The director said nothing. Or perhaps he hadn’t time to. “My dear Madame,” Chaptal continued, “have you had luncheon yet?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said. “I have been waiting all morning to audition, and had just finished when you arrived. I was hesitant to speak with you at first and presume upon old acquaintance, when the exigencies of life have so lowered my expectations.”

  “You must join me for lunch,” he said. “La Belle Armoire? The shade of the gardens is exquisite.”

  I looked down at my dress in mock dismay. “Monsieur Chaptal, do you think I am quite dressed for such an elegant establishment? I am afraid that I have nothing new this season, and I hesitate to embarrass you in public.”

  His face clouded for a moment, but the storm was not for me. “You mean to tell me that Moreau didn’t provide for you? That he put you off without so much as a purse?”

  I glanced down modestly, as though I hesitated to reveal the truth. “I can speak no ill of Moreau,” I said.

  Chaptal took my arm. “We will go have lunch,” he said gallantly. “And you look perfect.”

  We lunched elegantly on turtle soup with foie gras, then moved on to a variety of other treats, sitting in the shade of the big trees at La Belle Armoire. Chaptal gossiped about people I knew very slightly while I nodded and smiled and made myself very agreeable. We were all the way to the lemon ices before he got to the point. He leaned forward, a look of concern on his face. “I hesitate to pry . . .”

  “Yes?” I smiled sadly at him. “Monsieur Chaptal, you are so kind. I could not consider your friendly advice to be prying.”

  “Is it really true that Moreau put you off with nothing?”

  “With nothing except the clothes on my back,” I said. “You may ask him if you don’t believe me.” To my surprise, I did not have to pretend to the choked sound in my voice. “I had nowhere to go. I was fortunate that one of the actresses from the Théâtre Populaire took me in. She has been more than generous to me. She is like a sister.”

  His kindly face clouded. “Damn. Excuse me, Madame.” He cleared his throat. “That’s not how a gentleman behaves. Especially not to a companion of many years who has been the ornament of his home. I’d thought better of Moreau.”

  I said nothing. If it was repeated to Victor’s detriment, it was no more than the truth.

  Tentatively, he put his hand over mine on the table. “I’ve always thought you were a fine-looking woman and a perfect hostess.”

  His hands were white and manicured, but he was no fool if he had not only held on to his head but managed a political appointment, even one as little distinguished as Minister of Home Affairs. There was nothing attractive about him except his admiration. Admiration is always flattering.

  “I have always held you in the highest esteem as well, Monsieur Chaptal,” I said. I smiled at him warmly. “You know, I do not even know your given name. But I am sure you know mine, and I would not mind if you used it. I consider us intimate enough for that.”

  “Jacques,” he said. “Or you could call me Bobo, as my friends do. I hope you will consider dining with me on Friday. I would say tonight, but I have an engagement. You understand. . . . But the opportunity . . . I am not sure you will be alone long. So many gallant young soldiers . . .”

  I lifted my wineglass in salute to him. “There are some things that improve with time. Wine is not the only one. Age brings character and deeper flavor.”

  Chaptal actually blushed. “Will you do me the honor of dinner?”

  “I would be honored,” I said. “And your fond regard is recommendation enough. I never had the opportunity to get to know you when I was with Moreau. It would not have been proper to spend much time with someone whom he so clearly would suspect of being a rival. I would not like to be the inadvertent cause of your being forced into an affair of honor.”

  Chaptal smiled happily. “I should not have liked a duel with Moreau. Fine soldier. But I’m no slack hand with a pistol, either. Challenged party chooses the weapon, you know.”

  “I am sure you are a fine shot,” I said. “But what then should happen to France were you to wound her general thus, as I am sure you would?”

  “It’s better this way,” he said, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips. “Oh, and I’ll just have a little word with Monsieur David at the theater about your audition. I’m sure something can be arranged for you.”

  When I told Lisette about it, she sniffed. “You can do that. But everyone will hate you. They always do, when a girl has screwed her way in rather than getting in on merit.”

  I shrugged. “So they will hate me. I need the money.”

  “Chaptal’s fickle,” Lisette said. “He changes girls every few months. Oh, nothing bad is ever said. He doesn’t beat his women or do anything strange. But his attention wanders to whatever is new and interesting. Look how fast he was on to you! He does that all the time.”

  “I know,” I said. “He never brought the same girl twice to a party. But as long as he gets me a part, I’m satisfied if he gets bored next month.”

  “One part. And then you’re never cast again if they hate you,” Lisette said. “You were doing better with the medium act.”

  “It doesn’t pay enough to live on. And given the choice between Chaptal and walking the arcades of the Palais-Royal, I’ll take Chaptal.”

  We had dinner at his townhouse on Friday, and then retired upstairs. Compared to Moreau, his tastes were bread-and-butter. Youth and beauty were spur
s enough to his passion and he needed no embellishments. For all that he seemed older, he was scarcely more than Victor’s age. The Directory was filled with young men, and forty was not old. I told him that he was a stallion, a bull, a fine specimen of manhood indeed. He did not notice that I was not much moved.

  Afterward, as his carriage delivered me home, I looked out the window at the crowds still streaming into the Palais-Royal, to the coffee shops and dubious amusements. This felt like the first time I had sold myself. Yes, of course that was what it had been with Victor, but it had not felt that way. He was as conscious of my dignity as of his own. He had not, until the very end, made me feel as though I were his property rather than his lover.

  I had not felt repulsed by Chaptal, merely bored. If I had found it disgusting, perhaps I would know that I had some womanly feeling, some decency left. Instead, I had merely wondered, even at the height of the act, how much longer he intended to go on and how much longer I should need to keep up theatrical sighs and moans.

  I had never wondered that with Victor. All the sighs and moans had been real.

  Perhaps, I thought, most men are like this. Perhaps I will never be moved again. But at least I know that I have the stomach for it. I can do this. I don’t really mind. I do not come home like the ruined women onstage, weeping and lamenting, but simply a bit tired and dissatisfied.

  The next day I had a note from M. David, the Director at the Théâtre de la République. I was cast in an afternoon matinee, a review of famous moral stories from antiquity, told in eight scenes. It would open in seven weeks, and I should be in the third scene, cast as Dido, Queen of Carthage.

  Dido’s Revenge

  Oh, tell me not that it is fate! Oh, tell me not that you must fly!” I lamented. “Gracious Juno, make this pyre my marriage bed!”

  The director cleared his throat loudly. “Try to sound like you’re talking to Aeneas, not to the third row. And look at him, not up at the flies.”

  “I thought I was talking to Juno,” I said.

  “Juno is not up in the flies either,” the director snapped. “You are giving the audience a view of your chin. Get your head down and turn your face to three-quarters like you’re talking to Aeneas.”

  It was a very poor rehearsal, and I said so to Lisette afterward.

  “A poor dress rehearsal means a good performance,” she said. “Supposedly.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “It’s not nerves. It’s just that things keep going wrong. People keep stepping on my lines, and I’ve been late twice because I was told the wrong rehearsal time.”

  Lisette shook her head. “I told you people would hate you if you got the part because of Chaptal. Is he coming to the opening tomorrow?”

  I nodded. “He’s bought the best box. And he’s having a party for me afterward at Les Palmiers.”

  Lisette raised an eyebrow. “Very nice. He must be very taken with you.”

  “I think so,” I said. “He wants to see me at least twice a week. And he’s told me to order a dress for the party and charge it to him.”

  The dress was perfectly lovely. It was white silk brocade with a faint jacquard pattern, white on white. It was cut low in the bosom, showing my breasts lifted by the stiff half-corset, and full in the skirts, falling in gorgeous draping folds. A pair of white brocade mules went with it.

  Of course, this was not my stage costume. That could not have been worse suited to my complexion or looks. It was a long-sleeved garment of scarlet satin, with long trailing sleeves slashed with gold cord. It was not fitted closely, and the bodice was padded an absurd amount and trimmed with more gold cord. Perhaps it would have looked good on a dark-eyed, dark-haired woman with a vivid complexion. It made me look entirely washed-out, and the gold cord made my hair look dingy in comparison. The cut would have flattered a shorter woman, and given her the height and substance she needed. It merely made me look freakishly large and as broad-shouldered as a dragoon.

  Lisette came by to help me dress. I saw her biting her lip.

  “What’s the matter?” I said, looking in the mirror. I looked like a ghost with dirty hair.

  Lisette picked up the rouge pot and began sweeping it over my cheekbones. “You need some color,” she said. “You shouldn’t be wearing scarlet. Platinum blondes with pale complexions can, but not a honey blonde with a pink complexion.”

  “I look like a clown,” I said.

  “I’m doing the best I can,” Lisette snapped. “It’s supposed to be heavy for the stage, heavier than you’d wear anywhere else.” She bent low to my ear. “What did I tell you about people hating you?”

  I nodded miserably. “I know. The costume is terrible. But what can I do about it?”

  “Nothing. You’ll just have to act.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “After all, it’s not my fault the costume is gaudy. I’ll just have to do well anyway.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Lisette said. “Just do your best. Anyhow, Chaptal will still be here, no matter how you do.”

  There was a knock on the door. One of the rigger boys stuck his head in. “Madame St. Elme? Somebody left these for you.” He held out a bouquet of white roses tied with white and silver ribbons.

  I took them from him. They were almost scentless, and this late in the fall must have been grown in a greenhouse or a sheltered place. There were a dozen of them full-blown, not budding. “How beautiful!” I held them up.

  “Who are they from?” Lisette asked.

  There was no card with them. I asked the boy, “Who was the gentleman who left these?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t see him. Someone came round to the stage door and said they’d been left at the box office.”

  “And lost the card, I suppose,” said Lisette, looking for a vase. “They’re lovely. I suppose they came from Monsieur Chaptal.”

  “They must have,” I said. “White roses are my favorite.”

  There was another knock on the door. “Ten minutes!”

  I looked around. “Where are my shoes?” They had been sitting right beneath my costume in this dressing room shared with six other women. They were gone.

  “Someone must have picked them up,” Lisette said. “Don’t get down on the floor in your costume! Let me look under there!” She started crawling around under the tables and chairs.

  I hunted frantically through the piles of clothes left lying around. None of the other women helped. They just kept putting their makeup on.

  “Two minutes!”

  I looked at Lisette and she looked at me. “No shoes,” I said. They were very high-heeled gold shoes with pointed toes.

  “Shit,” Lisette said succinctly. We both knew what had happened.

  I went on barefooted. Which made my costume much too long. This was a good thing, since you couldn’t see my feet at all. Barefooted was marginally better than wearing my very modern and entirely inappropriate white shoes.

  The footlights along the bottom of the stage had been kindled, oil lamps in glass globes that were supposed to shield the lights and keep our skirts from catching fire. Above, the lights hanging from the pin rail were bright. And the house was full.

  I looked across the stage, and it seemed very far. The young girl who was playing my sister Anna came up behind me. “Ready?”

  I nodded. Across the endless expanse of stage, M. Lamorial waited in his chiton and gilded sandals, a gold wig over his dark curls. I walked on, Anna pacing after.

  “Where is beautiful Aeneas?” I asked. “He has said that he would meet me, and yet I wait in vain.”

  “Here he comes,” Anna said.

  Lamorial stepped onstage and bowed. “Gracious queen,” he said. “Your loveliness eclipses the sun. And yet I must wrong you, gentle soul, generous benefactor.”

  “What? Oh how!” I exclaimed, trying to walk forward in my too-long skirts. I reached up with my left hand instead of my right, realizing too late that I was gesturing with the wrong arm and blocking my own face. I switched precipi
tously.

  “Father Jupiter has decreed that I must leave your shores, gentle queen,” Lamorial declaimed. “For it is a high fate that leads me to the shores of Latium, where in pleasant climes I must found a city worthy of my Dardanian forefathers and the gods of sacred Troy. There it is prophesied that I shall prove the foundation of a mighty race.”

  “Oh! Oh!” I exclaimed. “My wounded heart! Is there naught that I can say to turn you from this fate? Not my riches, not my love?”

  Lamorial took my hand. “Were it only riches or love, I should tarry in Parthenopean glades forthwith. No, it is fate that leads me on, fate and the winds that Father Jupiter encourages to move our fragile ships.” He was getting into the scene, and he dropped on one knee before me, looking up at me out of blue eyes. “I pray you, lady, do not despair. I know that you grieve, and that your heart cannot be healed. I fear that I shall see you no more under the sun.”

  “No,” I said, taking my hand from his and looking off into the bright lights. They made my eyes water, and suddenly I felt a wave of strangeness breaking over me, as though I watched this farce from outside. “You shall not see me again beneath the sun. Perhaps in that fair land between the rivers, where luckless mortals dwell forever in starlight, you will see me in the meads of lilies and know that it was your cruelty that drove me there. Perhaps you will regret your folly then. Perhaps in those empty places between the River Styx and the River Lethe, memory at last will fail me and I will be spared the recollection of your face.”

  I should have eaten, I thought. Oh, God, I am actually going to faint. Oh, God, for the first time in my life, now is not a good time to faint. I reached forward and seized Aeneas by the shoulder. “Oh, Dardanian Prince! Oh, beloved son of Venus! Do not wound me thus!”

  Lamorial looked shocked that I had grabbed him and staggered off balance on one knee. It didn’t help that he was a small, slight man, and in my giant robe with my height, and him down on one knee, I towered over him. I heard a faint titter of laughter run through the audience. “Gracious queen, I must,” he said.