The General's Mistress (32 page)

“Fama volat,”
I began. When I stood at last onstage in Milan’s Opera House, looking up at the tiered boxes in scarlet and gold, a frisson ran through me. I could not make out any faces. The lights in my face were too bright. But here and there I could see the telltale glitter of braid, of diamonds, of bright decorations. I thought the Consular box must be to the right, so I addressed myself there:

“Fama volat. So slaves spoke to Caesar, reminding him

In his glory that Time itself does not stand still

That the procession of years renders glory itself faded.

But still there is that which remains

Virtue and manhood, courage and destiny

Triumphant over the centuries themselves

That men might know and emulate Caesar.”

A
stillness came over the theater.

“Thus spoke the Sibyl of Cumae

And thus spoke Caesar’s slaves

That all glory is fleeting

But virtue and love endure.”

T
he glitter in the dark. Someone had moved, but how I could not see. I looked out into imagined eyes, but all I could see were the lights.

“Fortune’s Darling, know

that Time himself cannot tarnish

the wreath that rests upon your brow

though Fame pass and laurel wither.

As Achilles or Alexander

your name shall endure.”

I
sank to my knees gracefully, my dress puddling around me in soft folds.

“Take then this wreath

this tribute of my hands

Caesar, I lay this at your feet.”

I
extended the wreath I had made and laid it on the stage, my head bent in submission, sweetly and sensually, as Victor had taught me, holding the pose kneeling in the silence.

One clap began it, then the applause was thunderous. Fame
knelt before the First Consul, her blond hair spread across her shoulders and her hands stretched in surrender, and her eyes were full of tears.

I barely had time to get backstage and change for Sébastien. I had no idea what people were saying. So it was a surprise to come off at the interval to find a solemn aide-de-camp in the dressing room.

Isabella had come in too, and he looked from one of us to the other. “Which of you ladies is Madame St. Elme? The Prologue?”

I exchanged a look with Isabella. I hoped her poetry hadn’t been badly received. I stepped forward. “I am Madame St. Elme,” I said evenly.

“The First Consul would like to see you after the performance,” he said. “He would like you to join him for a private supper.”

I heard the hiss of Isabella’s indrawn breath.

My voice was entirely steady. “Please tell the First Consul that I would be delighted.”

The First Consul

I
hardly recalled the second half of the performance. I tried to keep my eyes from straying to where I thought the Consular box must be, despite the fact I could see nothing. Afterward, I ran back to my dressing room to change. Isabella came in hot on my heels. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Isabella, this should be you.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she said, grabbing my best dress and tossing it over my head. “Can you see me explaining to the First Consul that I can’t take supper with him because I prefer an artillery colonel?”

I stuck my head out the top of the dress. “Do you really?”

Isabella started doing up my buttons. “I do. Auguste isn’t so much to look at, but . . . I’d hate to lose him. And I can’t expect him not to yield me to the First Consul, if I had his eye. Or not to feel like I’d set my cap for better and been disappointed if I didn’t keep it.”

I looked at myself in the mirror. I seemed awfully pale in white satin. I wished I still had the lovely blue dress I’d had when I was with Moreau. “I’m not sure I want the First Consul either,” I said. “I haven’t had a lover since . . .”

Since I’d ended the child, I thought. No man had touched me. And being Charles had not exactly encouraged male admirers.

Isabella knew what I meant. She began to do up my hair with quick, deft fingers. “It’s not as though you’d decided on a life of celibacy.”

“No,” I said slowly. The way she was putting it up was all
classical simplicity, better with no time for curlpapers. “But I hadn’t expected to go back to it when . . .”

“The stakes were so high?” Isabella raised an eyebrow at me over my shoulder in the mirror.

I nodded. “Too high.”

“Who knows when you might catch his eye again? And if you refuse or say you’re ill . . .” She spread her hands.

“I know,” I said. “It’s not just me. It’s the company. We all need this job, and we could all use the patronage. And I need the money. As much as is forthcoming. It’s just that . . .”

“What?”

I picked up my lip brush and wetted it with paint. “Moreau detested him. He said Bonaparte was an ambitious, boorish social climber with no graces, that he stormed women as though they were cities under siege. I really don’t want that right now. And while I hope I can do it if I need to, I don’t know if I can make it look good. Isabella, I really don’t!”

There was a knock on the door. Isabella’s eyes met mine. “You’ll be fine,” she said, and squeezed my hand.

The splendidly dressed aide was at the door. “Madame St. Elme? The First Consul has sent a carriage. Would you accompany me?”

Once I would have thrilled at this. I would have played out all my schoolgirl fantasies of being Madame de Pompadour or a daring spy hurrying away to a secret rendezvous with the king. Now I wished I had different shoes. And that the rainstorm that was coming would not break before I got inside, and that it would not reduce my hair to draggles. I wished I could go have dinner with the company and go to bed alone. Looking out the window at the lowering clouds over Milan, I shook myself. I must get into a better frame of mind. I must get in control. And Charles was no use to me. This was beyond his ken.

The carriage stopped in front of a grand entrance, clearly one of the great houses of Milan. A bewigged footman dressed as though it were still 1780 came forward to open the door and help me out. I stepped down and under the portico as the first drops of rain splashed on the street. The thunder curled high above. It was ten o’clock and not yet full dark.

An officer in dress uniform hurried forward. “Madame St. Elme, I am General Duroc. I am the First Consul’s personal assistant.”

I held my hand for him and he bent over it correctly.

“If you will come this way, I shall inform you of what is expected.”

I raised an eyebrow. Moreau had not kept this state. Barras hadn’t either. “You are the First Gentleman of the Palace? Or perhaps the Groom of the Bedchamber?”

He turned and looked at me solemnly. “I would not be rebellious if I were you. Simply be agreeable and charming, as I’m sure you are capable of. And do not fear if he asks you about Moreau.”

So that was known. Well, how not?

“If he says anything against Moreau, I am leaving,” I said. “And so much for the First Consul.”

Duroc’s expression did not change. “There is no need for all that. Some spirit is good, but too much is unattractive. I only tell you that you need not worry that he will hold some grudge against you because of Moreau.” He opened the door and led me inside. “The First Consul is properly addressed as sir at all times, not Your Excellency.”

“How very Republican,” I said dryly. The halls were carpeted deeply, a few candles illuminating alcoves, gilt mirrors reflecting back their light.

He led me into a study or library. It was dimly lit by
candelabra on the desk, and the shelves of books stretched up to the ceiling except where there were windows high up. The curtains were open and the windows as well, and the smell of rain blew in, causing the flames to gutter.

“Sir, here is Madame St. Elme as you requested,” Duroc said. He stepped back and closed the door behind me.

Bonaparte stood up from behind the desk. He was a slender young man, perhaps thirty years old, with dark brown hair that fell across his brow, too long for a fashionable new haircut and too short for a queue. It brushed his collar, which was dark blue and crusted with gold acanthus leaves. Beneath it he wore a white shirt and waistcoat, the plain white trousers of the dress uniform he had worn to the performance earlier.

He walked around the desk and stood before me, a somewhat quizzical expression on his face. “Do you know that you look several years younger here than on the stage?”

“I am happy to hear it,” I said evenly.

“You used to be intimate with Moreau,” he said. His eyes were very dark and betrayed nothing.

“Very intimate,” I said.

“He did some foolish things for your sake.” He clasped his hands behind his back, and I thought for a moment that he would cross behind me while I stood still, the oldest trick in the book for establishing dominance. Instead, he walked over to the desk and leaned on the edge of it.

“I suppose he did,” I said.

“And yet you are here,” he said. “Why?”

“Passions change,” I said, and was surprised at the bitterness I heard in my voice. “And we women are pawns on your chessboard. I have no choice.”

Bonaparte did not look away from me. It was my eyes that avoided his. “Do you want to leave?” he asked. “If you do, I will
call Duroc and have him return you to your lodgings. If your heart is given to Moreau, I will not try your loyalty.”

I looked at him suddenly.

He shrugged. “I don’t need to best him that way.” Bonaparte smiled, and the smile was like sunshine, like an invitation to a wonderful conspiracy, a joke only the two of us shared.

“I can see that you don’t, sir,” I said.

“Share my supper,” he said. “What is half an hour of your life? And perhaps I can convince you I am not the ogre that Moreau believes me to be.”

I stepped forward. There was a cold supper laid on a little table between the library shelves, a chicken and a salad, some cold potatoes dressed with mayonnaise. A bottle of wine stood sweating in the warmth of the room.

“I do not believe you an ogre,” I said. “But why should you care what I think? I am no one of importance.”

He held one of the chairs out for me. Standing beside me, we were the same height. Not a tall man, but he did not need tricks to impose. “How should I know who is important?” He seemed genuinely surprised by my question. “No one who is of any rank now was important ten years ago, saving Talleyrand perhaps. None of my generals, none of my companions, were born to it. Who’s to say what you’ll become?” Bonaparte sat down opposite me and began to help himself to the chicken, using his fingers to separate the wing and leg.

“I do not think I am likely to become a general, sir,” I said. “You know what I am. An actress.”

“Yes, the troupe,” he said. He gestured for me to help myself, and I tentatively did so. “I understand you’re following Lannes’s corps. Then where do you plan to go?”

“Perhaps the Tyrol,” I said, thinking of Isabella’s vague plans. “Or possibly to Munich.”

“Are you German then?” he asked, taking a quick gulp of wine and refilling his glass.

“I was born in Italy, but my heart is French,” I said. He did not pour for me, so I waited until he put the bottle down and helped myself. He ate at a furious pace, like a schoolboy who is afraid that the plates will be taken away.

“Do you like acting?”

“I’m not very good,” I said. “But I like it. I like the freedom. And I like the road.” I took another sip of wine. “I don’t like belonging to someone.”

“That’s what my wife said about you,” Bonaparte said, putting the chicken bones by. “She said you were to be trusted.”