My Bonny Light Horseman (24 page)

We receive attention from all the young men, of course—drinks are thrust into our hands, and compliments given on our performance. And not just the young men, either—plenty of older gents who should know better come sniffing around, too.
Old hounds
... But I laugh and giggle and simper and am pleasant to all, and then I feel a large hand on my shoulder, and all the other men look down and fall away.

"You are new here," he says, removing his hand and bowing slightly. "I enjoyed your performance."

"I am pleased that you did, Sir," I reply with a slight curtsy. "But you have the better of me, as I do not know your name." I damn well do, of course.

"I am Field Marshal Hilaire de Groote, of the Imperial Guard," he says, lifting my hand and kissing the back of it. "
Et vous?
"

Deep curtsy this time. "I am Miss Jacqueline Ophelia Bouvier, late of Boston in the United States."

"Ah. The Americans. Our sometime allies."

"The French are never far from our hearts, Sir. We remember Lafayette."

"Well said.
Hmmm.
I find you a well-spoken young woman and I would like to spend a bit of time with you ... discussing America and all. Unfortunately, I am here tonight with my wife, who is somewhat of a jealous sort and does not understand simple ... conversation between people of like minds." For an old rogue, he is certainly smooth.

"Perhaps tomorrow, Sir?" I say, trying to conceal the dread I feel. "I would very much like to have some ... conversation with you."

"Alas," he says, shaking his big head, "I am unfortunately called out on military affairs till Tuesday." He straightens up and intones, "The Emperor calls and I must obey."

"Of course,
mon Général.
Tuesday night, then, Sir," I say, lowering the eyelashes. "After the performance. 127, rue de Londres, room number seven?"

"It is done, my dear. I shall be there, and you shan't regret our meeting, I assure you," he answers, with a slightly furtive cut of the eyes to make sure his wife is not watching this exchange. She, occupied in polite conversation elsewhere, apparently is not.

There is a bell to signal the end of the intermission, and all us girls flee to the dressing room, where Giselle immediately collars me.

"You watch out for that one, Jacqui," she advises, all serious. "He is known to be brutal and rough. Ask Sacha there."

I look to Sacha, a small, quiet, and very young-looking girl. She nods and points to a bruise on her temple. "We call de Groote 'the Goat' for good reason,
chérie.
If you go into a room with him, make sure you have a way out."

I take that advice to heart.

The music comes up again, as does the curtain, and we are on.

The rest of the program is similar to the first—lots of silly plots and plenty of high kicking and flashing of legs. At the finale we are all in a line, and after some especially high kicks, we turn our backs, bend over, and flip up our skirts.

As I look down at my ankles with my tail in the air and shake the ruffles on my drawers, I think,
Oh, if Amy Trevelyne and my sisters at the Lawson Peabody could only see me now!

Chapter 24

I hang the yellow signal handkerchief in the window while I'm washing up and dressing. Then I take it down, shove it under the mattress, and go down the stairs.

"I trust you enjoyed the cognac," I say to Madame Gris, as I flip her the key on my way out without looking to see whether or not she catches it. All I hear from her is a snort.
We'll see, you old cow.

A closed carriage pulls up in front of me, the door swings open, and I climb in. Jean-Paul de Valdon sits in the opposite seat.

"
Bonjour,
" I say by way of greeting. "I see they have sent the boy instead of the man."

"Monsieur Jardineaux was called away this morning on an affair of great importance," he says.

"I'm sure," I murmur, as I settle myself. "Anyway, here is my report: I met Marshal de Groote last night, and he seemed quite taken with me. Things would have come to a head, so to speak, right then, but, unfortunately, his wife was with him, so I was unable to strip down and get under him right then, as I assume that even in Paris there are rules about such things—Madame Pelletier's theater being a public place and all."

"You are not being funny."

"
Non?
I thought I was just giving you my report. Anyway, he will come to my room Tuesday night. I will get the information. First, I want to see where he lives."

"What ever for?"

"I should explain to you? Am I not a member of this organization, too? Have I not a mind?" I say, fixing him with the Look. "Very well, I shall tell you. When I am ... entertaining him, I will want to compliment him on his fine house, his high station in life—that's how girls like us inflate the male soul and make him tell us even more of himself. Do you understand now?"

"All right." He leans his head out the window. "Driver. Rue Saint-Lazare." To me he says, "It is not far. Only two blocks."

Good. Then I shall not have far to run tonight.

We clatter through the streets down rue de Londres, turn left onto a large boulevard, and then left onto a quieter street, lined with fine houses.

"Armand. Drive slowly but do not stop."

"
Oui,
Monsieur." It's plain that the hack belongs to this bunch. Its driver, too.

Presently we arrive at what is probably the finest residence on the street. It is a two-story house, a mansion, really, set back about twenty yards from the road, and it's surrounded by a wrought-iron fence approximately eight feet high, each upright topped with a halyard spike. Still, not too bad—better than stone with broken glass imbedded in the top. There are two uniformed guards at the gate. There are no guards at the entrance to the mansion itself, but I suspect the Marshal is well protected inside as well. Well, it is not him I want.

I notice a delivery being made to a side door—must be the servants' entrance. A girl in maid's clothing receives the groceries. Wonder if de Groote gets on the help ... probably does.
Hmmm...
There is an attic window at the peak of the roof ... probably the servants' quarters. I hear a dog bark ... maybe two.

"Well, that's enough, boy," I say and give him a kick in the shin. "Now take me to Notre Dame Cathedral. It is Sunday and my day off."

"We were there just the other day. Why go again?" He looks at me in anger, and maybe, with just a little hurt in his eyes.

"Because I wish to pray for my friends, of which you are not one."

"For the Mass? I did not know you were Catholic."

"I am anything I want to be. I have many Catholic friends in the States and I have been to church with them. You will show me the proper time to kneel down and when to get up and when to—"

"But why should I cart you about like this while you insult me and call me a baby?"

"Because I am going to perform a very great service for you and your people. A service, I might add, I am going to find
extremely
distasteful. No matter what you might think of me."

"All right," he says, and gives instructions to Armand. We rattle forward and sit in silence for a while.

At length he clears his throat and says, "Mademoiselle Bouvier. Yesterday, when I spurned your hand ... It was not for the reason you said—that I had no respect for you. No, it was because I caught the wrath of hell from Monsieur Jardineaux for letting you slip away the previous day. I don't even know how he found out, but he did." He flushes. "I was almost sent away in disgrace."

I decide I have tormented him enough, and as I need this boy on my side, I pop over to seat myself beside him.

"That makes me feel much better, Jean-Paul. Thank you." Arm back in arm, with a bit of a snuggle. "Do you think lightning will strike the steeple of Notre Dame for one such as I being in it? Will the gargoyles stand up to roar in anger?"

"No, I do not think so, Mademoiselle Bouvier. It is all about sin and divine grace and forgiveness, is it not?"

"All us working girls certainly hope so." A bit more of a wiggle and a snuggle on that. "And you must call me Jacqui. Everybody does, you know," I say to him as I watch the city roll by while we head down to the great cathedral.

We go in the front door of the
Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris
and Jean-Paul dips his hand in a little stone basin next to the door and puts his hand to his forehead and does that Sign of the Cross thing. I am amazed at the interior of the place—if I considered Saint Paul's in my old neighborhood impressive, it was a minor wonder compared to this. I stand gaping in awe at the rosette window high above me, a great round stained-glass piece of artwork, with the sunlight streaming through. Below it are nine long, double-wide stained-glass windows depicting Biblical scenes. A Mass is going on at one of the altars, but Jean-Paul takes me by the arm and leads me over to a nearby dimly lit alcove where many candles are burning, some freshly lit, some guttering out.

"I think this is really where you want to be."

He gives a coin to a woman clad in black who sits quietly to the side, and she hands me a candle.

"You kneel on that low bench and light the candle from one that is already burning and then put it there in line with the others. I'll be outside." And he leaves me alone.

I put my knees on the padded bench and stick the wick of my candle into the flame of a candle that is about to wink out, and it catches. Then I put it in line with the others.

I am kneeling in a Catholic church, Jaimy, and I know that it would drive your family quite mad to know this, but it is all that I have available to me to pray for your recovery. Actually, it is a very nice place and I think you would like it and I hope to visit it again sometime with you by my side.

"That was very nice, Jean-Paul," I say, as I come back out into the light of the plaza in front of the cathedral. He waits by the carriage.

"Will Armand tell on you? Or us?" I ask, as I climb in.

"He would if he thought it a serious breach on my part. But he won't for this. He is from my village in Normandy. He knows my family, and I know his," he says. "And as for you, Jacqui, everybody is finding it very hard to dislike you."

"Ha. You'll find eventually that a little of me goes a long way." I laugh. "But now, we must have some lunch."

***

As I polish off the last of yet another staggeringly good meal at a cozy little restaurant near the Seine, we return to the carriage and after he hands me up, Jean-Paul gives some instructions to the driver. He climbs in next to me and Armand chucks at the horse and we are off again.

"Where are we going now?" I ask, fearing that he just might be taking me off to my room ... or his, for a bit of a tumble in the sheets. After all, from what he thinks he knows of me, all he would have to do is put twenty francs on my dresser top to pay for my services and on to the romp. But my fears are unfounded. Probably thinks he might catch something from me. A wise boy.

"I have read your dossier. You like to paint? Make drawings and such? Fine. I shall take you to the Louvre," he says.

"And that is?"

"A former palace of the King. It is now full of paintings looted from the royal treasures. It was set up for the education of the ... people."

"You want to say the rabble, don't you, Jean-Paul?"

"No, I am for the people of France, above all things."

"That is good of you," I say, pressing my lips together firmly. "In your dossier on me, did it also say that I grew up on the streets of London, a penniless orphan, just like those urchins begging over there? Hmmm? Tell Armand to go slowly by them. I will throw them some money."

He does it and I dig in my purse for some coins and then lean out the window. "Here,
mes petites,
have something good to eat tonight." The centimes hit the cobblestones and the kids shout in delight and scramble for the coins.

"You see that girl there?" I ask, pointing to a very skinny girl, about ten years old, clad in a dirty rag, who holds up her prize coin and waves her thanks. "That was me."

"I am sorry."

"Don't be. I made many friends there. Lifelong friends. There is more to the rabble than you might think."

I have never before been in an art museum, or any other kind of museum, for that matter. I am overwhelmed by it all. Jean-Paul points out huge paintings of battles, of gods and goddesses fIinging thunderbolts, naked fat ladies being hauled off to certain ruin by soldiers and Minotaurs, small, jewel-like portraits of fine Venetian ladies, stern Dutch burghers, crucifixions both of Jesus and others, martyred saints, and beautiful children.

"I may never paint another picture again, Jean-Paul," I say, my head down. "Never have I been so humbled, and to think I counted myself an artist."

"I have heard that you are quite good, Jacqui," he says, patting my hand that rests on his arm.

"Then maybe someday soon I shall paint your portrait in miniature. Would you like that? I brought supplies with me from England. You could give it to your sweetheart, and she would treasure it in your absence."

"I have no amorous alliances," he sniffs. "I have no time nor inclination for that sort of thing."

"A handsome young man like you? I cannot believe it."

"But it is true, nonetheless."

"Jean-Paul, do you have this evening's Jacqui Bouvier Watch in the window across from mine?"

"Yes, I do. I have virtually all of the 'Jacqui Watches,' as you call them. Armand takes over sometimes when I need to get some sleep." Here his face tightens. "Tuesday night, when you ... accommodate de Groote, Jardineaux will be in attendance as well. Why do you ask?"

"I am quite dazzled, and I think my eyes cannot take in even one more pink cherub, one more beautiful stained-glass window," I say, with the back of my hand to my forehead. "So why do we not go back to my place, and I will paint a miniature portrait of you. You can give it to your sweetheart when you decide to get one, and she will treasure it."