The Heroic Baron (11 page)

Alain met Cecile the next afternoon as promised and
a new chapter of Cecile’s life began. The days became
magical with Alain by her side. He patiently strolled
through the marketplace with her, standing aside as she
bought her vegetables and bread. He gallantly visited
her coterie of shut-ins, never shirking from offering
help or from the dirt of their surroundings. The little
room at the top of the stairs vibrated with Alain’s presence. Etienne flourished under Alain’s attention, regaining the youthful sparkle he’d had before his illness.

Always, Alain was the complete gentleman, thoughtful in his dealings with her friends and with her. He had
not offered her money since the day he’d taken her to
the grocery on the Faubourg, understanding her need
for self-sufficiency. Yet, Cecile knew she had only to
ask, and he would provide for her. In that, there was a
kind of warm security she had not felt since being un der her parents’ roof. It lifted a daily burden of worry
from her.

For the first time, she had someone to talk to and to
confide in. In those days, she talked often about her
family and life in the village before the soldiers had
come. She talked of her concerns for future employment when the general left Paris, something she had to
think through but something she could not share with
Etienne, who would worry and push himself to get a
job when he was not yet healthy.

The only blemish on their afternoons together was
the overt knowledge between them that Alain was
courting her. He made no secret of his affections for
her, although he did not press another kiss on her since
the kiss they’d shared the first night he’d stayed for dinner. Cecile had been wooed by men before. The general’s supper table was full of men who thought to buy
her affections with expensive gifts. They had all failed.
She’d thought herself impervious to Cupid’s dart until
Alain entered her life. He was wooing her and he was
succeeding through the employment of simple kindnesses. How could she fail to be moved by a man who
devoted himself to helping the elderly, fixing ragged
toys for children, and playing endless games of chess
with her brother? How could she not respond to a man
who was well-kept and fastidious with his appearance?
Clean men were a rare novelty in her world. But Alain
was finely turned out, even in the worn clothes he
adopted for their afternoon forays. His nails were cut,
his jaw shaven, his golden hair neatly trimmed, and his
skin smelling faintly of sandalwood.

On occasion when she was particularly struck by his
handsomeness, Cecile found herself thinking, “This is
how a gentleman lives, with pressed clothing, colognes,
and no doubt a valet to add the right finishing touches.”
How wonderful it was to bask in Alain’s presence and
to pretend for a time that she was a part of his world.
He was courting her. Of that there was no question. But
to what end? He couldn’t marry her, although Cecile
liked to indulge her daydreams in pretending it could
be otherwise. She didn’t think Alain would be so cruel
as to ask her to be his mistress. However, she could
come up with no other explanation as to why he’d so
persistently seek out her company. Her quandary about
the direction of their growing relationship threw into
sharp relief many difficult realities that made her magical afternoons with Alain no more than that. What did
she really know about him?

She would lay awake in bed at night counting off the
treasured facts she knew about Captain Alain Stanislawski but the list of facts was short. She knew
adjectives-terms that described him. He was compassionate, tender, thoughtful, and she thought, remembering the greasy pawn broker, he was willing to stand up
to people who sought to manipulate others. But she
knew nothing of him, nothing of his past, his life in
Poland, his family or his military career. She had talked
much about herself, but Alain had skillfully avoided answering questions about himself in return.

The longer they were together, the more Cecile began to fear the end of their association, for it would inevitably come. If the rumors swirling around the general’s dinner table were any indication, the end
would come sooner than she might have otherwise expected. Already, the general’s suppers were attended by
fewer officers, many having been given their orders to
march to Napoleon’s aid at the front. General
Motrineau might have been called to action as well if it
hadn’t been for a growing conflict of sorts brewing in
Paris. Motrineau had been left behind to squelch pockets of rising rebellion associated with a supposed secret
society called Les Chevaliers de la Foi and to halt the
antics of a phantom menace that went by the name
L’Un, “The One,” who was spiriting dubiously loyal
families out of the city.

Cecile made it a habit not to listen to the military
gossip at the general’s table, but with her livelihood dependent on the general’s remaining presence and her
growing attachment to Alain, who dined nightly now
with Motrineau and Von Hausman, she knew it was in
her best interest to stay informed. What she learned, as
she discreetly executed a quiet summer lullaby on the
violin, sent chills down her spine at odds with the
sweaty stickiness of a hot summer night in the city.

The spring had brought victories for the Grande
Armee, with Napoleon riding out of the city April 15 to
do battle at Lutzen. Dinner talk had been of nothing but
the series of victories which followed, victories so intense, the allied forces were suing for an armistice at
Pleiswitz by the first week of June. Those had been raucous nights at General Motrineau’s table as everyone
celebrated. Farewells were exchanged as officers trickled out to join their troops.

Then nothing. The talks surrounding the possible armistice had brought fighting to a halt, as well as the
exodus from the sumptuous lifestyle of Paris. There
was no fighting, officers were going nowhere. Just as
Cecile wished her idyll with Alain would last indefinitely, she had wished the armistice would succeed and
that there’d be no more battles. Then she wouldn’t have
to look for work. General Motrineau would not be summoned from the city. Now, it appeared that hostilities
would resume shortly.

At a dinner in mid-August most of the talk at the table
held an underlying current of excitement as officers
spoke of departing soon. Some had already begun the
task of packing up their households. The future Cecile
did not want to face was imminent. At the thought of facing unemployment, a cold knot took up residence in her
stomach. She supposed she could always throw herself
on Alain’s mercy if need be, but their relationship was
complicated enough without the added element of pity.

In the next instant, Cecile felt the knot unclench. General Motrineau raised his wineglass. “A toast, to all of you
going to seek victory in the name of our emperor! I give
you good luck and Godspeed! May we meet around this
table next winter, celebrating the conquests of France!”

The men all drank. Glasses were set down and a man
near the general spoke. “We haven’t heard of your plans,
General. Where do you think you’ll be assigned?”

The general leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head. “I’ll be here. I’ve received word that
there is battle to be waged in the city.”

“An enemy from within!” the man said, aghast at the
prospect of such a traitor. Similar exclamations journeyed around the table.

The general motioned them all to silence. “It has
come to our attention that for the past several months, a
secret society called Les Chevaliers de la Foi has grown
more active. They have bannieres not only in Paris but
throughout France. We do not know how militarily disposed they are, but we do know that they have an exacting organizational structure. Their outer circles
masquerade as charitable groups; it is how they do their
recruiting and woo people to their cause. Their inner
circles are very secretive and that is where the plotting
against the empire takes place. They have been silent
this summer, waiting for the outcome of the armistice,
but we have reason to believe they were quite active last
winter when it seemed possible the emperor would not
recover from the Russian campaign.”

The general spread his hands on the cloth. “A secret
society alone is of little consequence to the emperor; it
is the other part of the scenario that is of concern.
There is an individual or group, whom we have dubbed
L’Un, who has taken to helping families escape from
the city who we believe might be connected to potential
members of Les Chevalier’s inner circles. Such a concerted effort to protect family members suggests that
they may be making ready for a serious strike at the
empire. It is my duty to not only break the society but
to catch the miscreant who thinks he can challenge the
empire with such insubordination.” The general’s fervor in the form of his fist meeting the table caused the
crystal to jump.

There was a clamor of questions. “General, how long
has this been going on?”

“Since March, as best we can tell. Perhaps in the ex citement of mobilizing the troops for the spring campaigns, this traitor thought to slip past our attention.”
The general speculated.

Cecile glanced at Alain. Of all the men at the table,
he seemed overly quiet. Unlike the others, he was not
beside himself with questions or disbelief that someone would dare such a feat under Napoleon’s nose.
She’d gleaned that the Polish troops were unquestioningly loyal to Napoleon. She would have expected a
more explosive response from one of the renowned
Lancer captains.

She was surprised to see Alain take his leave of the
general shortly after the general invited the men to join
him for cards. Alain declined and politely departed
without even a glance in her direction. The general had
instructed her earlier that he’d not need her once they
adjourned for cards, so Cecile quickly packed away her
violin and made a swift departure, not stopping to
change into her own clothes. Something had disturbed
Alain greatly at dinner. He’d been quiet and had had little to offer a conversation that he should have found
second nature. No doubt a captain of a squadron was
used to receiving orders and packing up or of others doing the same. The surprise could not have been the various orders the men received to report to the front.

Cecile caught sight of Alain further down the street
and she followed as rapidly as she could. Still, she
could not get within hailing distance. She continued to
follow. She saw him turn onto the Faubourg, and then
go through a gate in a vined wall that fenced off a house
from the street. Cautiously, Cecile pushed open the gate
which had remained unlocked. She knew the kind of house that would be behind the wall. It was the kind of
house she dreamed of having: three stories tall with
shutters on all the windows and lights burning within
against the gathering summer darkness.

Voices drifted out to her as she neared the door. She
didn’t need to sneak, she reminded herself. This was
Alain’s house, and she was Alain’s friend. She couldn’t
make out what the voices were saying, then she realized creeping closer wouldn’t help. The voices weren’t
speaking French. Alain’s was among them, speaking
something other than French. It sounded like English,
which made so sense at all to Cecile. She could make
out none of the words except the startling reference
that had her flying back to the gate and out into the
street. L’ Un.

Blocks away and certain she had not been detected
or followed from Alain’s, Cecile stopped to catch her
breath. She tried to tame her rioting thoughts. Why
would Alain be speaking English? Why would he be
discussing L’Un with others who spoke English? Suppositions began to form in her mind and the incongruity
she couldn’t name several weeks ago, became clear.
She had collided with Alain in March. But he had not
appeared at General Motrineau’s house for supper until
April. His appearance had coincided with the disappearance of the Panchettes. She found it odd that as an
officer, Alain had not immediately been invited to the
General’s home for a welcome dinner until April when
he’d have been in town for nearly a month.

She thought about the insinuations at the table that
night regarding L’Un. He was believed to have found
his way into the inner social circles of Napoleon’s Paris. Alain certainly had done so. She recalled thinking how amazing it was that Alain had risen so quickly
in the general’s favor, finding himself a guest at the
table any night he cared to lay a claim to an invitation.
Lately, he’d been dining there nightly. Was it possible
that Alain was L’Un? That he was not a Polish noble’s
son? The thought was wild and heady, yet sobering. If
Alain was not a Polish Lancer captain with a compassionate heart for the poor, then who was he? If what she
knew of him was not the truth, then she didn’t know
him at all. The man she’d spun her romantic fantasies
around was nothing more than a fantasy himself. She
had fallen in love with a fiction of a man.

Alain paced the back bedroom of the rented residence, pushing his hand through his hair in agitation.
The game had escalated without his awareness of it. He
had not guessed that there was even a hint of an evacuation effort. He’d been careful to disguise the boat and
to obtain French sailing papers so the harbormaster at
Calais would not grow suspicious. He’d been careful
not to be seen with any of the parties leaving his house.
Cranston too could not determine when the breach of
security could have occurred.

Of course, Alain knew the security breach was entirely his fault. He’d been so absorbed in his pursuit of
Cecile that he hadn’t assessed the situation growing in
Paris. Alain stopped in front of the window and stared
down at the small overgrown garden. If he’d been alert,
he would have realized Bonaparte was desperate. The
Grande Armee had been rebuilt over the winter in Paris
but it had not regained the strength it had known before the Russian campaign. In March, the German Nationalists had risen up against Napoleon’s supporters in Germany. Napoleon and his generals feared a repeat of the
disaster in Russia. Any sign of rebellion at home or
abroad must be put down. Les Chevaliers de Foi must
have sensed the desperation and began hatching their
plans, but they had not been careful enough to avoid detection. The faintest whisper of a plot had been enough
to alert Napoleon’s infrastructure.