My Bonny Light Horseman: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, in Love and War

by L. A. Meyer

  But I don't. What I do is nip into the marché des vins, which is right next door, where I buy three bottles of brandy—cognac, as the French would have it—two fine glasses ... no, get three in case one should break ... and some nice napkins. Several bottles of good wine, a corkscrew, and ... playing cards? You have them, too? Bon! Such a fine store that has so many things for sale. You shall have all my commerce!

  That should do it. I ask that my purchases be delivered to 127, rue de Londres, room number seven. The proprietress, who has been beaming at me during all this, now gives a bit of a sniff and a look when she hears my address, but I suppose I must get used to that. At any rate, she lets her son make the delivery. Money still talks.

  Now, back to the game.

  He is out there, sitting on a bench, pretending to read a newspaper. On my part, I pretend not to see him peeking out over the top of it. I march on to the end of the street where rue de Londres meets up with rue de Clichy. It is a busy intersection and I find several coaches there, waiting for fares.

  I go up to the first one in line. It is a cabriolet, a carriage that has a top that can be raised or lowered, sort of like an umbrella. The top is up now as I approach the driver and hand him several francs.

  "Monsieur. Take this. I will get into your cab and go out the other door. If you will drive around the block, then come back and pick me up again, there will be more money for you. Do you understand?"

  He nods but looks at me with that Gallic raised eyebrow, questioning just what is up.

  "It is a joke. On a friend. You will see."

  "Ah. Mais oui. Young love and all that?"

  "Just so, Monsieur."

  "Well, get in and play your trick."

  I jump in the carriage, go to the other side, release the catch to the far door, and jump down, hidden from the young man who I know is on the other side of the street. There is an alley there and I duck into it, signaling for the driver to go on. He slaps his reins on the haunches of his horse and the cab moves away.

  The young man comes running across the street, plainly perplexed. He signals for the next cab in line and says to the driver, "Follow that carriage!"

  "What carriage, Monsieur? I see none."

  "The one that just went around the corner, damn you!"

  "You may damn me, Sir, but that cab could have gone in any of three directions, rue de Clichy, rue Saint-Lazare, or rue de Châteaudun."

  The young man stands on the sidewalk, his head down. He knows he's going to catch it when he reports back to Jardineaux, and catch it good.

  I tiptoe up behind him and take his arm. "Have you lost something, M'sieur?" I purr. He looks down at me and I give him the Big-Eyes-with-Three-Flutters-of-the-Lashes salute.

  He takes a deep breath and stares straight forward. "This is not how it was supposed to go."

  "Yes, M'sieur, but this is the way it went. Ah, here is our carriage," I say, as my faithful charioteer brings his cab around once again. "Please put the top down, driver, as it is a most pleasant day," I order grandly. The cabbie does it, and I pile into the seat and beckon the young man to join me. "Come on. You will now show me the charms of your most beautiful city, as I am a stranger here, and am in need of your kind guidance. Come on, I will not bite you." Not yet, anyway.

  He shrugs and climbs up into the seat next to me.

  You will show me the charms of your fine city, lad ... and I will show you some of mine...

  "First let us go up rue de Clichy so I can see where Madame Pelletier's studio is..."

  He snorts at the word "studio," so I know what he thinks of that establishment.

  "...so I will know where to go in the morning. Ah, there it is. Now, let us be off to the river, the Seine, of which I have heard so much. And Notre Dame, is it possible we can see that?"

  It is possible. We clatter over the cobblestones, and it is not long before I have him laughing, having gotten to my feet in the coach time after time to point at some especially grand fountain with Neptune surrounded by nymphs and mermaids spouting streams of water from their mouths, or monstrous gargoyles hanging off the roofs above us. It is such a wondrous city.

  After one such outburst, I flop back onto the seat. "Your name, Sir?" I ask. "You have me at a disadvantage—you know mine, but I do not know yours." He seems to be a nice young man and just what he is doing in this nasty business, I don't yet know. But I am sure I will find out.

  They had asked me to pick a new name for myself, as I certainly couldn't waltz into France under the name Jacky Faber, La Belle, and so on. So I picked Jacqueline Ophelia Bouvier. I thought it had a certain romantic dash, plus it hints at a possible French ancestry, which I might find handy someday.

  "I am Jean-Paul de Valdon, Mademoiselle Bouvier. À votre service."

  "And why are you here?" I ask, looking at him closely. He has brown hair, more light than dark, a narrow nose, and a high, I might even say noble, forehead. The nobility of that forehead is softened somewhat by the curls that spill over it. His mouth is framed by a small brown mustache. He is very well dressed in a dark suit of what I suspect is the finest fabric. Not cut from the Carr and Boyd cloth, I know that.

  He considers my question and replies, "I am a Royalist. I hate Napoléon and all he stands for."

  "And why is that?"

  "I lost my grandfather, many uncles, aunts, and cousins to the guillotine, all for the supposed crime of being aristocrats. Most of our lands were seized and our family was left disgraced and almost penniless."

  "Ah. Too bad," says I, but having been penniless for a good part of my life, I really can't muster too much pity for the surviving members of his family. I do feel sorry, of course, for those who died under that monstrous chopping block. My dreams have already been invaded by memories of the day that I believed that my own head was going to fall into the guillotine's basket.

  "But Napoléon didn't have anything to do with that," I say. "That was much earlier."

  "It is all the same. The guillotine is still kept busy."

  "I, too, have a nodding acquaintance with that same guillotine, but let us talk of happier things. What is that over there?" I ask, pointing at a large park.

  "That is the Jardin des Tuileries. It is a beautiful spot. It has seen its share of bloodshed, but now Napoléon uses it for ceremonies and festivals. Would you like to walk there?"

  "I would like it very much, Jean-Paul," I say, "if you will lend me your arm."

  Though it is early autumn, there are still many beautiful blooms to enjoy, and after our walk, we have an equally lovely lunch at an open café right next to the Seine. As usual, I eat too much and too lustily, but he seems mildly amused by it.

  "When are you to be relieved of your Jacqueline Watch?" I ask, wiping the grease from my lips. At least I manage not to burp.

  "At four," he says, trying not to smile.

  "Well, we shall make sure you are back on your corner, keeping a sharp eye on the very slippery American girl, so do not worry. Now, you must show me the rest of your city, Monsieur Jean-Paul de Valdon."

  ***

  Later, when I get back to my room, I find my packages have been delivered and sure enough, one of the bottles of cognac is missing. The concierge tax, I suppose. Well, I must say I expected that, which is why I bought three.

  I flip off my hat and cloak and set up my bar on my washstand. I take one of the bottles, uncork it, and empty about a quarter of the brandy out into the chamber pot. Then I refill it with tincture of opium from my stock of the same, shake it up, and recork the bottle. With a dab of my rouge I make a little red mark on the top of that one, which I dub the Loosen-Up-Their-Tongues Potion, or Mixture Number One. With the other one, I pour out a good half, again refilling the bottle with Jacky's Little Helper, and give it a quick shake. That one shall be called the Knock-'em-Clean-Out Bottle, or Mixture Number Two. I put the sparkling new glasses next to the bottles and step back to survey the work. Looks good, I think, feeling rather like a spider who has spun her
web and has only to be patient and wait for the fly.

  Satisfied with that, I work with the playing cards a bit, lengthening the odds considerably in my favor, should I find a game and be able to use these now-altered cards. Then, pulling out my needle and thread and black cloth, I begin to stitch up a black hood, complete with eyeholes, which will be my burglar's outfit. I wouldn't feel comfortable not having that at hand.

  Time for Jacky to get another seabag, oh, yes.

  Much later, as darkness falls, and following a fine dinner of bouillabaisse, the best fish stew I ever tasted, it's back to my room. With the wedges shoved under the door, I go behind the screen, strip off my clothes, get into the nightdress, climb into bed, and reflect that it was not a bad day, not a bad day at all. And that Jean-Paul, he...

  Enough of that, you. Good night, Jaimy.

  Chapter 23

  Once again, I had breakfast at Deux Chats, and I ate it alone.

  Seeing Jean-Paul at his station back on the corner, I had gone up to him, hooked my arm in his, and said, "Come, Monsieur de Valdon, and break the fast with me. At Deux Chats. It is a nice little spot. Very clean, with good food. My treat."

  He took my hand from his arm and dropped it, looking straight forward, unsmiling. "No, it is not professional. You kidnapped me yesterday, but I have come back to my senses now."

  I looked down at my spurned hand, my face flushing pink.

  "Ah," I said, narrowing my eyes and deciding to throw a bit of a snit. "It is clear to me now. You, a young royal, cannot be seen in public with one such as me. That is it. You are afraid someone will see." Seemingly well steamed now, I poked a finger in his chest and glared up at him. "And I showed you such a good time yesterday, you foolish boy!"

  He looked pained. "No, that is not it at all, it is..."

  "Well, here, a last kiss for you, silly puppy, for you shall receive no others from me." I stretched my neck upward and kissed him on the cheek as I did yesterday when we left the carriage after our day in Paris. "There, Jean-Paul de Valdon, Aristocrat of France. Now run along home and tell your maman that you were kissed by a bad girl and she will wash your face for you, with strong soap, so you will be clean again! And maybe she'll wipe your bum for you, too! Baby!"

  I shoved him away and strode down the street to Café des Deux Chats, leaving Jean-Paul de Valdon behind me. The food was, again, very good, but I didn't enjoy it as much. Stupid boy...

  When I arrive at the front door of Madame Pelletier's studio on rue de Clichy, my knock is answered by an old man with white hair and whiskers, dressed in what I suppose is a French butler's rig. He is very courtly and escorts me in to meet Madame Pelletier.

  On my way in I notice that Madame Pelletier's establishment is more than a mere studio—it is actually a small theater. There is an entrance hall, a foyer that contains what appears to be a bar, and beyond that, a large open room with seating for perhaps a hundred patrons of the art of dance. The walls are lined with elegantly framed paintings, most of them, to my eye, very fine.

  I can see that there is a stage raised about three feet above the level of the floor, with room in the front to seat a small orchestra. I assume the dressing rooms are in back.

  Madame, herself, a small, trim woman, is seated at the bar, sipping a cup of tea and reading a newspaper. She looks up, I dip down in a medium curtsy and say, "Bonjour, Madame. I am Mademoiselle Jacqueline Ophelia Bouvier. I believe I am expected?"

  I hand her my letter of introduction supplied to me by British Intelligence. She takes it and opens it.

  As she reads it, the other girls of her troupe come straggling in, singly or in pairs, yawning and whining about the earliness of the hour and the wretchedness of their lives, and asking why do they have to practice anyway when they already know the routines.

  "Ah, yes. You are our American girl. Good. Welcome, Jacqueline. I just lost a girl to a Polish general who took her as his mistress last week and I need a replacement. I like to have an even dozen in my corps de ballet, and I was assured you were qualified." Madame takes another sip of her tea, puts down the cup, and raises her voice to call, "Blanche, come here!"

  A harried-looking older woman with pins held in her thin lips emerges from a side door, looks me up and down, and raises her eyebrows in question to Madame Pelletier.

  "Oui?"

  "This is the new girl. Her name is Jacqueline. Take her back and fit her out in costume. Then we will have practice."

  The woman named Blanche looks at me and points to the door of the room from which she had just come. I bow slightly to Madame Pelletier. "Thank you for receiving me so graciously, Madame."

  Madame nods and goes back to her newspaper as I follow Blanche into what I find are the dressing rooms ... or rather, dressing room.

  The other girls are already there, getting into their costumes, calling out to one another, making jokes, and laughing uproariously. There are two long benches on either side of the room, two lines of lockers, and two large windows at the rear of the room to let in some light and air.

  They quiet down a bit upon seeing me enter.

  "And what is this?" asks a tall girl who is seated on the bench, pulling up her stocking.

  "I am Jacqueline Ophelia Bouvier from America, here to join your company," I say.

  "That is your locker there," says the taciturn Blanche, very little interested in who I am and where I came from. "Take off your clothes, and then stand on that box there."

  "But why are you here?" asks the same tall girl. I sense that she is the leader of the pack, and I find I am not wrong.

  "I am here to dance," I say. I slip off my shoes and hang my hat on a hook in my locker.

  "There is no dance in America, that you have to come all the way over here?"

  "There is not much," I say. "Have you not heard of the Puritans? They do not like dancing." I shrug off my cloak and hang it on yet another hook.

  "I think she comes to dance le jig-jig at 127, rue de Londres," giggles another girl, and this is met with great gales of laughter from the others.

  "You know my name, but I do not know yours," I say to the girl who has just made the joke.

  "I am Giselle," she replies, rising to put on her skirt. "And this is Zoé," nodding to the tall girl. "And that is Béatrice, Yolande, Georgette, Yvonne, Isadora, Francette, Héloïse, Véronique, and Sacha."

  "I am most pleased to make your acquaintance," I say, with a deep curtsy. "Thank you for making me welcome."

  It is then that I unloosen the fastenings on my dress and pull it over my head, exposing my shiv held in its sheath on my left forearm. The room goes dead silent. If I had known this was going to happen, I would not have worn it, but I did. And maybe it's good that they see it and know I am not a helpless waif. Even though, at the moment, I am feeling exactly like one.

  I take off the sheath and stuff it on the upper shelf in the locker. I quickly pull off my stockings and underclothes and then bounce up on the box to await Blanche's fitting.

  "Ooh là là...," whispers Giselle, looking about at her sisters in wonderment. "She looks like a baby, but she has a sharp tooth."

  "And a tattoo," says Zoé, walking about me as I stand there. "And what looks like a whip scar. What do we have here? Une petite tigresse?"

  "Just a simple American girl," I say, grinning. "And how about this?" I reach up and pull off my wig, revealing my short-cropped hair.

  That gets more gasps than anything. I think I may have won over this audience.

  The tape measure goes around my waist, and I am fitted for my costume. It consists of a tight white sleeveless chemise top with narrow shoulder straps, white stockings that reach only the midthigh and are held up by pink garters, and very short drawers with ruffles that run across the rump. A gauzy white skirt that barely comes to the knees completes the thing. Ooh là là, indeed.

  Then we have rehearsal.

  Madame conducts it herself. The old man at the door picks up a fiddle and saws out some music for us to dance
to. It's Luigi Boccherini, I think, Concerto in D Major or something or other. The choreography is quite simple, and, since I have been provided with instruction on the dances she stages, I get along quite well. It is mostly step, kick, step, kick, side step, slide back, and kick. There are lots of high kicks and flashings of ruffled tail. If I stumble, the other girls help me out, and soon I have everything down pat. They really are a pretty good bunch.

  Lunch is brought in and we have a great time eating and telling stories. I regale them with tales of Boston and my journey down the Mississippi and New Orleans—they can't get enough of New Orleans, being French and all—and then we go back to practice.

  After two more hours of rehearsal, Madame calls a halt, we get dressed again, and she warns everyone to be back at six o'clock for tonight's show at seven.

  Before I put my hat on to leave, Madame calls me aside for a bit of a talk.

  "Ahem," she begins. "As for the men who will come here ... You will not be forced to go with any of them, but we expect you to be friendly—mix with them in the intermission, flirt with them. If you leave with one of them, what you do then is your own business. But we like to keep them happy, so they will keep coming back to Les Petites Gamines. Do you understand? Some rich and powerful men come here, and more than a few of my girls have made very profitable liaisons. Comprenez-vous?"

  "Yes, Madame, I do."

  "Good. You did well today. And your accent, Américaine, is it? I'm sure some will find it very charming. Good day."

  I go back to rue de Londres, take a nap, get up, freshen myself, and go out for a bite before returning to Les Petites Gamines de Paris.

  I'm sitting at Café des Deux Chats, polishing off an excellent plate of snails, when the chair across from me is pulled out and my blood runs cold. It is Monsieur Jardineaux, my would-be executioner and now my promised control.