The General's Mistress (16 page)

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 evidence 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

W
hat 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.

“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

I
t was the last letter that I mailed.

I
t 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

“I
nnocent!” 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.