by Jo Graham
Anna took my arm. “Oh, dear sister!”
Aeneas struggled to his feet, shaking off my grip. “I must go. The bounding waves call me, the winds of Aeolus even now fill my sails.”
“No!” I shrieked. Three more lines. I felt the world swimming around me.
He backed a step or two away, raising his arm in farewell. “I must go. My heart is breaking! How can I be parted from your bounteous generosity?”
Bounteous brought forth another titter of laughter. I felt the blood rising to my already scarlet-painted face. “I shall die! Oh, tell me not that it is fate! Oh, tell me not that you must fly! Gracious Juno, make this pyre my marriage bed!”
“Farewell!” he said. “My heart too is broken!” and bounded offstage as I collapsed into Anna’s arms. Unfortunately, I tripped on my overlong skirts, and would have flattened her with my full weight if the curtain hadn’t come swinging down as she staggered beneath me.
I ran off the stage and back to the dressing room. No one else was there. The other women were all in the next scene that was starting. I looked in the mirror. My eyes were bright with unshed tears and my face was a carnival mask, a parody of beauty.
There was a soft knock. It was Delacroix.
I looked at him and shrugged.
He came over and patted my shoulder.
“Was it bad?” I asked.
“Darling,” he said, “you were horrible.”
I burst out laughing. It was terribly inappropriate. But what else was there to do?
I was still laughing when M. David, the director, came back. “I’m glad you find it so funny, Madame,” he said. “However, I do not. The Dido and Aeneas scene will not appear in the next performance, or in any future performance. We are not a comedy troupe, Madame. We are the Théâtre de la République!” He swept out and slammed the door.
Delacroix shrugged. “Well, that’s that.”
“Go out so I can change,” I said. “Chaptal will be waiting, and there is a table at Les Palmiers. I hope you’ll join us.”
“Of course,” he said, and bent and kissed my brow. “I wouldn’t miss your best performance of the evening.” He closed the door carefully behind him.
I cleaned off my makeup. Lisette had been right. It did no good if they hated me. But I still had Chaptal, and now I must make myself bright and agreeable for him, even if half of Paris was laughing at me. Or perhaps with me. Perhaps I could pass it off as deliberate comedy.
By the time the show ended and Chaptal came around to the stage door, I was wearing my white dress and was fit for company. I carried the bunch of white roses, and I had tucked one into my hair.
If Chaptal had seen anything amiss in the performance, he did not say so. Instead, he greeted me with a huge mixed bouquet and embraced me enthusiastically. “My dear lady! A masterful performance! Amazing! You nearly brought me to tears!”
“Of mirth,” Delacroix said in a low voice behind me.
I ignored him and embraced Chaptal. “Bobo, I can’t tell you how much that means to me! And to find the lovely flowers from you in my dressing room was simply wonderful!”
“Flowers?” Chaptal looked surprised. He looked at the big mixed bouquet he had been carrying. “Those are the flowers I sent you, dear lady. I didn’t send any around to your dressing room.”
“Oh.” I shrugged. “There was no card and I thought they were from you. Never mind.” I kissed his cheek. “I love this beautiful bouquet. Thank you so much!”
He put my wrap around my shoulders and we went out into the rainy street. His carriage was waiting.
I stopped. I glanced back. The street was busy with theatergoers hailing hired carriages or stepping into their own. Others were leaving on foot, or milling about talking with friends and acquaintances in the gathering dusk. I could have sworn that someone was watching me. There was no one, but still I felt odd, as though someone were waiting just out of sight.
“Ida?” Chaptal said, still holding out his hand to help me into the carriage.
“I was distracted for a moment. I thought I saw someone I knew.”
Chaptal and I lasted through the end of the old year, which I understood was something of a feat with him. True to form, he broke it off handsomely, over dinner in a public place where I could not scream or cry. He gave me a purse and a not terribly expensive topaz ring and thanked me for a lovely time.
I made appropriate noises of dismay, but in truth I wasn’t disappointed. My bank account was much improved by the relationship, and I was running out of dramatic sighs for the bedroom. Nothing seemed to excite him like novelty, and after a few months my body was starting to be too familiar.
So I wiped my eyes bravely, told him that I should miss him, and went home to lie on the sofa and eat food carried out from a tavern with Lisette.
I still had a weekly appointment with M. Lebrun to scry for his clients. Most of the questions were quite dull and repetitive. Finances, marriages, affairs, and business ventures of various sorts were the usual questions, and most of those could be managed with stock answers. As the weeks passed, I found it easier and easier to give them without being distracted as I had been the first time, to imagine enough but not too much.
One evening very early in the spring, there was a young man who struck me more than the usual ones. He had his right arm in a black silk sling, and he had come with two friends who were very cheerful. I thought they had all had a few drinks before they arrived, though they calmed down well once the ritual started. I saw from the way they stood and their respectful silences that they had done something of the kind before. I could always tell the people who had some legitimate lodge in their background from the way they moved inside the space delineated by the censer.
I saw, when I lifted my eyes for a moment from the blackened mirror, that he was wearing the uniform of a naval lieutenant, and his hair was cut short in the new, modern Brutus cut, curling just a little over his collar. He had olive skin, and he was quite handsome.
When it was his turn to ask a question, he leaned almost too close. “To what ship will my next posting be, and what will be her fate?” He had a faint Catalan accent.
I mumbled some nonsense and looked in the mirror. And then I saw it in my mind’s eye, a small ship in a harbor I did not recognize, wreathed in mist. I told him what I saw. “She waits for you in port,” I said, “in a broad port beneath a headland with a single lighthouse. The seas are steel gray and the wind blows straight into the harbor. She’s a small ship, with only one line of ports down her sides, and six guns on deck.”
“Is there a figurehead?” he asked keenly.
Lebrun moved as if to stop me, but I went on. “Yes,” I said, trying to see more closely. “It’s a woman carrying a shield. There’s a head on the shield, a device of some kind.”
“Minerve,” the young man breathed.
One of his friends spoke. “Minerve is under repair at Le Havre.”
Lebrun stepped forward. “Enough, Lieutenant. You must not tire our Sibyl. Please let the others have their turn.” He didn’t like it when people pressed me to be too specific.
After all the guests had left that night, Lebrun came up to me as I was putting my cloak on. “All right?”
I nodded. “Fine.”
He put his hands in his pockets. After a moment, he looked at me sideways. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?” I was hunting for one misplaced glove.
“Tell them things that are true. Things you can’t guess. And don’t tell me you know where half the frigates in the French navy are berthed. Or have some idea what that fellow’s posting will be. You don’t even know his name.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said, carefully not looking at him. The glove was on the floor under the chair. “Sometimes I just know. I make things up and I know they’re right.”
“Have you ever done this kind of thing before?”
I looked at him then. There was no mockery in his face. “No,” I said. “I can r
ead tarot cards. And my mother said . . .” I hesitated to tell him.
“What?”
“That women in our family can see things in mirrors. My mother is crazy, mind you. It doesn’t mean anything. That we’re Doves, whatever that means.” I shrugged again to show him I didn’t believe any of it, and that of course I wasn’t curious. “Do you know what that means?”
Charles Lebrun sighed deeply. He sat down on the chair. “I do,” he said. “That’s what some traditions call the person who’s supposed to scry. In the old days it was a virgin boy or girl, usually a child, who was supposed to be the vessel for whatever invoked entity they had called. More recently, it’s a young woman.” He grinned. “Not necessarily a virgin.”
“I suppose not,” I said. I sat down next to him on the other chair.
“I’ve never done that kind of work,” he said, “invoking demons. I know there are some people in Paris who do. It’s too dangerous.”
“You mean you believe they’re real?” I was startled. “But this is a scam!”
Lebrun raised an eyebrow. “Is it? Aren’t you telling them the truth?”
“Yes,” I said. “At least, as best I can.”
“You’re the real thing,” he said. “I’m surprised, but I’ve heard of such. A natural Dove. I imagine you could host a demon if you tried.”
“I’d rather not!” I said.
“I thought you didn’t believe in demons?” he said. “This is a scam?”
“I’m not even pretending to be possessed by a demon,” I said. The entire idea filled me with dread.
“How about an angel?” Lebrun asked. “Angelic possession is much easier, I’m told. I’ve got some clients interested in doing an angelic invocation, and they’ve done all the regular sessions before. I either have to cut them loose or give them something better. And I’ll share the cut with you fifty-fifty if you’ll do an angelic possession.” He touched my arm. “You can fake it, you know.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said. “How much are we talking about?”
“Seven hundred francs, split two ways,” he said. “Thereabouts. After I’ve paid the Elemental Spirits.”
“Who do they want to invoke?” I asked.
“The Archangel Michel, patron of battles,” Lebrun said.
René
A few days later, I was to meet Lisette for lunch in a café just off the Palais-Royal. It was the first day of the year that really felt like spring, and I asked for an outside table even though the air was still a little chilly. Lisette was late, but the café was cheap and I was early for lunch, so the waiter didn’t care if I sat for a while.
The crowds in the Palais-Royal had picked up. Lots of people were taking advantage of the sunshine to stroll and to look in shop windows. Several flower vendors were doing a brisk business, and right next to the outdoor tables a pair of street musicians had settled in, a woman singing and a man who played the Breton harp.
I ordered white table wine, which the waiter brought immediately. The sun was warm. The glancing sun struck sparks off the glass, reflections in the wine, winking off cutlery like a mirror, reflections of remembered fire, like Lebrun’s mirror. The woman’s voice was clear and true, like some other I had known but couldn’t remember, could not put a name to.
. . . an old-fashioned tower room and a woman singing, her long red hair caught up in pins at the back of her neck, pale as a swan’s in her square-necked dress of black velvet. She smiled, and her smile was for me. Her eyes were warm, and her expression was just like Ney’s, open and fair and just a little awkward. She didn’t sing before company often, I thought. I knew that about her. And in a moment she’d move, tilt her head another way, and I would remember her name—
“Mademoiselle? Are you well?” A voice beside me interrupted me. I looked up, startled, into the concerned eyes of the young naval lieutenant from the last scrying session.
I jumped. “Yes, quite well,” I said. “My mind wandered for a moment, that’s all.”
He nodded very seriously. His arm was still in a sling, but his uniform was freshly tailored and probably new. “I think we’ve met. Though under the circumstances, I don’t know your name. But you were quite right about me being posted to Minerve. My orders arrived yesterday. I’m to report next month. I can’t imagine how you did that.” He pulled out the chair opposite me. “Lieutenant René Gantheaume. I don’t suppose you know my name either, unless Lebrun told you. He’s an old faker, but my friends told me that you were the genuine thing, so I had to come see.” He looked at the chair he was holding. “May I?”
“I’m waiting for a friend,” I said.
Gantheaume grinned. “He’s late and I’m not.”
“She,” I said, smiling. It was hard not to respond to his infectious charm. I held out my hand. “And it’s Madame St. Elme.”
He bent over it gracefully. “I should have known. All the pretty ones are married.”
“Tragically, I’m a widow,” I said.
He glanced at my light-blue spring dress. “I trust your bereavement wasn’t recent?”
“Several years ago,” I said. “As you can see, I’m prostrate.”
He laughed and sat down opposite me. He was dark and graceful, and hardly more than a year or two my senior.
“How is your wound?” I asked. “You don’t seem to be suffering greatly.”
“It was painful enough to begin with. But now it’s quite bearable, thank you. I can still manage quite a lot, even with a broken arm.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?” I asked, cutting my eyes at him. His uniform was indeed new, and the braid was real bullion.
“Whichever you prefer.” He signaled to the waiter. “I’ll have what the lady is having.” The waiter nodded and disappeared.
“Do make yourself at home,” I said.
“Thank you, I will.” Gantheaume set his hat on one of the empty chairs and grinned again. “I have so few days to have lunch with pretty ladies before the coils of war again ensnare me.”
“Alas,” I said, smiling. “And you cherish every opportunity to make precious memories to sustain you amid your travail?”
“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” he said. “Spoken like a cavalry lieutenant. They always say they’re better at gallantry than us poor navy boys.”
“You look like you’re doing well enough,” I said.
The waiter returned with his wine. “I have a rich and doting uncle and a pocket full of prize money. And just twenty-nine days to enjoy it before it’s back to Le Havre and the sea.” He raised his glass. “To liberty. And a pleasant leave.”
I touched my glass to his, smiling. “You are the most transparent rogue,” I said. “What makes you think I don’t have a protector?”
He shrugged. “If you had, you would have said so by now. Or perhaps you’d not mind a charming and transparent rogue on the side? A genuine naval hero who could go to his doom with the image of your fair countenance before his eyes?”
I burst out laughing. “Lieutenant Gantheaume—”
“René. I insist that you call me René.”
“René, then. Just what did you have in mind?”
“Dancing at the Exchange tonight? An intimate midnight supper?” His black eyes were bright.
“How intimate?”
He grinned again, showing very white teeth. He hadn’t been at sea long enough for them to be otherwise, presumably. “For only two. I don’t intend to share you with all my friends.”
“That would be extra,” I said, still smiling.
He looked at me as though he wasn’t sure whether to take me seriously or not.
I raised my glass. “The kind of memorable leave you seem to be proposing isn’t cheap. I hope you have plenty of prize money. My last protector was a cabinet minister.”
He hesitated a moment, then touched his glass to mine. “Why the hell not? I’ve got twenty-nine days, and if I go back to sea flat broke it won’t matter. Better to have a leave to rememb
er.”
“I’ll make it unforgettable,” I promised. After all, why not? Why not someone my own age who was handsome and charming?
I had expected that he would have a hired room, but instead that evening he took me back to an elegant old house on Île Saint-Louis. A bewigged butler opened the door. “Master René,” he said, bowing respectfully.
“Good evening, Louis,” he said, handing him his hat and my wrap. “I trust you’ve got a collation laid out.”
“Yes, sir. In the green room, sir.”
René escorted me down the hall to a lovely little Louis XIV parlor where a table was drawn up near the fire, two gilt chairs beside it, the cushions worked with golden roses on a celadon background. He held my chair for me with a flourish.
“Very nice,” I said. “Surely this isn’t yours?”
He sat down opposite me. “I told you I had a rich and doting uncle. Admiral Gantheaume. I thought you would recognize the name. But he’s at sea right now, and fortunately told me to make free with his house while I’m in town.”
“I don’t know the naval commanders,” I said. “Mostly the army.”
“Aha!” René exclaimed. “I knew you’d gone with some army fellow or other. Probably someone who ranks a measly lieutenant.”
“I was with General Moreau for nearly two years,” I said.
He whistled. “Ranks a measly lieutenant indeed. I thought for a moment you were going to say Bonaparte.”
“Why should you think that? I’ve never met him,” I said. “I don’t really have an opinion of him.” Moreau, of course, had a great deal to say about him, but I wasn’t quoting Moreau anymore.
“He’s a genius,” Rene said. “I met him in Alexandria last year, when we were supplying the Expeditionary Force. Best general the Republic has, in the opinion of this measly lieutenant. He talks to you like you’re really there.”
“What does that mean?” I asked, helping myself to the smoked trout.
René took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Most senior officers don’t notice lieutenants any more than you notice a waiter or a footman. When you’re a lieutenant, you’re part of the furnishings. Part of the military trappings. Bonaparte sees you. He actually talks to you. He remembers people’s names and what they do. I think half his staff is in love with him.”