My Bonny Light Horseman (27 page)

It is not uncommon for men to wear masks at night in Paris, or Berlin, or London, or any city in Europe—to hide identity, keep off noxious odors, fend off airborne diseases—but still it is a shock to see him thus, towering over me like some monster in all his overpowering maleness.

"Come in, Sir," I quaver. "And make yourself comfortable."

He strides in and whips off his cloak, then his mask, and throws them both on the bed. His face is already red from much drink, and I count that as good. I close the door behind him, but I do not lock it, nor do I put in my wedges.

He wastes no time in getting down to business, putting an arm about my waist and burying his face in the nape of my neck, his lips working their way around my throat and toward my face.

"Please, Sir," I say, wriggling out of his grasp. "The night is long, life is short, let us enjoy our time together, slowly and with the deepest passion. Let us share some cognac and then I shall undress and we will be as one."

He lets me go and I pour out two glasses from Bottle Number One. I do need the information he has to give—his tongue must be loosened, but not deadened. Not yet, anyway.

He drinks deep and I pretend to take a sip. Then I nip behind the dressing screen. I judge the time, waste a few minutes in pretending to mess with my clothes, and then strip down to my bustier. I throw my cloak about myself and then step out from behind the screen.

"I hope you will like me, Sir," I say, as I slowly take off the cloak.

"Exquisite!" he gasps, his hands in front of him as if in prayer of thanks for a great gift. "
Comme une petite poupée!
"

Like a little doll? The little doll does not feel particularly exquisite, especially since she is sweating like a little pig, but we must get on with this.

"Please sit, Sir, in the chair. It would give me great pleasure to sit in your lap and be gently petted."

He throws himself into the chair and opens his arms, his face radiant. I refill his glass and give it to him. He drinks, and then I put myself in his lap. I take off my hairpiece and I know that without it I look all of twelve. It seems to please him.

He immediately hugs me to him and claps his lips on mine. I try not to be too rigid, but it is hard. I liked the feel of Jean-Paul's little mustache this evening when I kissed him good-bye. It was soft and tickled my upper lip in a pleasant way. I do not like the feel of de Groote's massive whiskers. They are rough, and I swear I can smell the soup he had tonight still in them. I must not show my disgust.
Steady now, girl.

"You are the finest thing I have ever seen! I shall keep you forever!"

I pull my face from his and say, "You pronounce yourself my great protector, but I do not know where you will be tomorrow or the next day. When the Grand Army moves, you will go with it, and I will be left alone, friendless, without my good Marshal de Groote to care for me."

"Ah, do not worry, little one. The Army does not begin to move until next week. We have plenty of time! Be a good girl and let us get you out of this thing." He begins to unlace the top of my bustier, and I let him do it.

"But where will you go, my dear
Général,
will it be far from me? I could not bear it to be too far," I simper. He has gotten the lacings about halfway undone.

"What?" he says, his voice now thick with both drink and opium. "Oh. We go to Germany to kick the shit out of those cabbage-eating Prussians. After we cross the Rhine, we're going to head for the western plateau of the Saale River. We've got to kill them before they get us. Enough of that. Let's talk about you. Ah, you are so beautiful ... you..."

There is a commotion outside my door. It flies open and a very angry Madame de Groote stands there with two pistols in her hands.

Pistols! Mon Dieu!
I thought this would be the usual pointed fingers and accusations! I guess I don't know French women very well.

I roll out of de Groote's lap as she fires. The bullet plows into the wall right next to her husband's astounded head.

"You pig!" she screams. "Consorting with whores! Divorce! Yes, divorce, right after I kill you!"

She fires again, but I don't wait around to see if her bullet finds its mark. I leap to my window and am out of it, clinging to the drainpipe for my own dear life.

There is much noise above as I crawl down that pipe, run across the street, and climb up the one that will take me to the window where Jardineaux's men watch me each night.

When I get there, I rap on the window and yell, "Open up, damn it! Let me in!"

The window opens and I slide in.

"What the hell?" Both Jardineaux and Jean-Paul are there, and I don't know which one said that, but I suspect it was the big man.

He is at the window. "Look at that! The police are coming! Damn! You've blown this whole setup completely apart! Damn!"

I hear whistles and shouts outside and go to the window where I see the police pour into 127, rue de Londres. After a while, Madame Gris is taken out screeching, with her hands bound, and is put in a police wagon. A smile works its way across my face.
Good for you, you old sow.

In a little while, two men come out bearing a large man on a stretcher. It is entirely possible that Marshal de Groote will not be joining the march north.

I cross my arms across my chest and start to shiver. "I did not do this. Madame de Groote did it. I was an innocent bystander. Here is the information: The Grand Army will begin moving next week. They will leave Boulogne, and after they cross the Rhine, they'll head for the high plain west of the Saale River."

Jardineaux brings his gaze upon me. "Right" is all he says, and then he is out the door, probably to try to repair the damage to his network.

I turn from the window.

"Jean-Paul. I do not have much on and I am cold. I am very, very tired, and I wish desperately to go to sleep. There is a bed there, and I am going to lie in it." I go over to the bed, yank back the covers, and crawl in.
Ahhhh...

Jean-Paul watches me get in but stays at the window, looking out. There is a long silence, but after a while he says, "You do not know this, Jacqui, but I hold a commission as a lieutenant in the Fourteenth Division of Light Cavalry in Marshal Murat's Corps. From the information we have gotten by your efforts, and from others, we know that Napoléon's Grand Army is preparing to move. I will move with them. A system of couriers, riders, will be set up to carry what intelligence I might gather back to Jardineaux and the Royalist forces in ... London."

I am now wide awake. I know how hard it is for him to say the name of that city he has been taught from birth to hate, and that in naming it he is branded a traitor to his own country. I remain silent and he goes on.

"I will leave the day after tomorrow to go to the Army. I will join my unit." He pauses. "It all seems so silly, sometimes. We all know that Bonaparte will march north to meet the Prussians because they would not accede to his demands. What more is to be learned? Tell me."

"I don't know," I say. "I hate being a spy, too."

He comes to the bedside to stand over me, looking down at my eyes peeking above the cover and I think I know what is going through his mind:

I am a young man in the prime of my youth and I am about to go off to war. I know that I might very well be killed when the battle rages. I also know that there is a girl, a girl I like very much, lying half clothed in that warm bed next to me.

What could that girl expect, except that the young man should take off his jacket and lay it over a chair and then loosen his tie and take off his shirt? That he should sit in that chair and remove his shoes and socks and then stand and reach for the top button of his trousers.

Oh, Jean-Paul, I like you so very, very much, but...

But I know that things are going to change between us and I decide to tell him just how things lie. "Jean-Paul, I'm going to tell you something that's going to tie your mind in a tight little knot."

"And what is that, Jacqui?"

"
Je suis une vierge,
" I whisper. "Whether you want to believe that or not is up to you,
mon cher.
"

His eyes go wide. "What? You?
Non!
It is not possible!"

"It is true, however." I wiggle deeper into the bed. "And I am promised in marriage to a Lieutenant James Fletcher, a British Naval officer who may, or may not, be still alive, and who might not even want me when I come back to him."

"But the artillery captain...? The others...? How...?"

I am getting very drowsy, but I manage to say, "There were no others. And as for him, do you remember the other night, after I painted your portrait? How you came back to this room and then fell fast asleep? Hmmm?"

He thinks on that for a moment and then says, incredulous, "You ... you
drugged
me!"

"Just a little," I say.

"But why?"

"I did not want to think of you awake all night watching my window when I was up to nothing wrong."

Almost nothing...

He stands there, his fingers still on his top trouser button. In the gloom, I hear him sigh and I think he hangs his head. "I am no good at any of this ... to be gulled by a simple girl ... I don't know. I just don't know..."

"I don't know anything, either, Jean-Paul. All I know is that the night is growing chill and if you were to get in here beside me, it would give me great comfort."

I feel the covers being drawn away as he slips in beside me. I can tell that his pants remain on.

"Thank you, Jean-Paul," I murmur as I turn over and snuggle into him and lay my head on his chest. "You are a very good man and I am very fond of you."

G'night, luv...

Chapter 28

I am still wrapped up in the covers as the dawn breaks and Jardineaux returns to the flat. Jean-Paul had wisely gotten up before and put his shirt, tie, and jacket back on.

"This situation is no longer going to be productive for us, now that
la Grande Armée
is going to move. We've got to find another way to use her."

Use
me?

"Use her, Sir?" asks Jean-Paul, now burdened with new things on his mind.

I lower the covers such that my eyes peer out at Jardineaux.

"I am convinced she had something to do with that debacle last night." I put on the innocent look, and he gazes at me, not believing it for a minute. Then he looks away and nods. "...but her information was good, very good, I will give her that. I would keep her next to de Groote, but he is suffering a bullet wound to his lower groin area and will not be leading any part of the Imperial Guard in Napoléon's new campaign ... nor will he be needing a mistress."

"I am sorry for Marshal de Groote's pain," I say, pulling my knees to my chest, enjoying this last little bit of bedtime. "He was
such
a nice man."

Another glare from Jardineaux. "Be that as it may, girl, but we must have more information on this coming conflict. Lord Wellesley will demand it."

Lord Wellesley? Hmmm ... First time I've heard that name.

He puts his hands behind his back and paces back and forth. "I believe I shall place her with a certain group of camp followers ... laundresses by day and companions for the men at night. It might prove useful. Monsieur de Valdon here holds a commission with the Light Cavalry so he will be on the march with
la Grande Armée.
He will be your contact. It is all very simple."

"Sir, I must protest," sputters Jean-Paul, but I beat him to it in the way of protestation.

I leap out of the bed, still clad only in my bustier, and point my finger in Jardineaux's face. "What? You must be mad! I am to be a laundress and scrub clothes all day and then let myself be covered by privates and sergeants by night? What use is that?"

Jardineaux curves his lips into a cold smile. "The lower ranks sometimes know more than the generals—morale, state of readiness, and all that."

I'm thinkin' hard and fast.
How can I get out of this?
Then I remember what Jean-Paul said last night about the line of couriers....
That's it!

I take a deep breath. "You may think me a common trollop, but I am not and I will prove it to you. But for now, you'll just have to take my word for it."

I jump to the window and fling it open. "I will see you both on the corner at six o'clock this evening, and then we'll see what we shall see!"

With that, I am out the window and down the pipe, and across the street. It is still just dawning and the sight of a young girl dashing to the opposite side of the road in her underclothing would not be a rare sight around here. And then it's up another drainpipe and into my room.

Gaining it, I survey the damage. The place is in disarray. The bed is askew and my chest is open with its contents scattered about. There are also a couple of men, policemen, I believe, asleep on the floor. I check their pockets for money—it is the Rooster Charlie Gang urchin in me, I know—and find a considerable amount, which is good. The two are, of course, lying right next to my now half-empty bottles of cognac.
Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly...

I take a pillowcase and begin stuffing things inside it—a few dresses, some underclothing, handkerchiefs, my burglar gear, a bonnet or two, one of the blankets from the bed, the remaining laced cognac poured into one bottle and tightly corked, and that's it—except for ... I crawl under the bed to retrieve the packet of money that I had shoved up under the mattress. That, and my shiv and sheath, which had been hidden in the same place.

All that done, I take leave of my room. A pity, really, because I had come to like it, and the street, and the neighborhood and Paris and all that. But it's over. Time to move on.

Taking two hundred francs from my stash, I wrap the bills in a piece of paper and then go out the door, down the stairs, my bag over my shoulder. Madame Gris is not yet out of the slammer—probably she's been charged with running a house of prostitution. I hope she enjoys her stay. At least I don't have to toss her my room key, nor two francs for my last visitor, the unfortunate General de Groote.