The Heroic Baron (4 page)

“I am getting stronger every day. I promise you” Etienne beamed under his sister’s attention.

Cecile drew her bow across the four strings of her violin in a defiant flourish, bringing her final piece of the
evening, a wild caprice, to an end. She glanced at her
employer, General Motrineau, and breathed a small
sigh of relief. From the size of the grin he wore, he was
well-pleased tonight. He and the others at the table
broke into applause. Cecile gave a curtsy and made to
leave, wishing tonight would be one of the nights the
general didn’t invite her to sit with them. She detested
those nights. It was decadent enough that she performed for his all male supper parties with his fellow
generals. The general knew well enough that a proper
musicale involved wives and was held in a conservatory or music room, not at the table while men drank
and smoked cigars.

“Cecile, ma cherie, come and join us” The general
hailed her before she could escape. He motioned to the
chair next to him, for which Cecile was thankful. At
least she wouldn’t have to deflect the amorous advances
of his friends.

“I do believe your violinist, Motrineau, plays as well as Paganini.” One of the generals, a paunchy middleaged man, said further down the table. “I had the pleasure to hear Paganini in Italy when I was there last year.”

A man near Cecile laughed heartily. “General
Motrineau’s violinist is certainly prettier.” He turned to
Cecile while paying her the lavish compliment. She
blushed and stared fixedly at her folded hands. This
was the kind of talk she wanted to avoid.

“Better paid too,” another put in, “from the looks of
that gown, she is obligated to be good” The whole
table broke into manly guffaws at the coarse innuendo.
She was used to such brash speculation. That didn’t
mean her cheeks weren’t burning. All the guests she
played for assumed she was also General Motrineau’s
mistress. While he had indicated several times he was
interested in such an arrangement, she was not. It was
bad enough he insisted on dressing her in lavish silk
gowns and having a lady’s maid do her hair up each
evening.

“Gentlemen! Remember your manners,” General
Motrineau reprimanded the group. He turned to Cecile.
“Ma cherie, I have not heard the last piece you played
before. Tell us about it.”

Cecile spoke hesitantly at first, then more rapidly,
losing herself in the description of the caprice and the
emotions represented by the runs. It wasn’t until she
finished that she realized the table had come to full, enrapt attention. No one had filled up a glass or drank
from one for fear of missing a single word.

General Motrineau broke the astonished silence.
“There, gentlemen, and to think Napoleon is against
educating women!” Everyone laughed at his daring tongue in cheek. Cecile took the opportunity to make
her escape. She pushed back her chair and curtsied to
the men, hastening to leave. To her chagrin, the general
rose with her.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment, gentlemen, I
must have a moment with the lovely Cecile.” He offered Cecile his arm and led her from the room. Behind
her, she could hear low, whispered, ribald comments.

“This is unseemly, Monsieur General,” Cecile said as
soon as they were in the corridor of his opulent home.

“Ma petite cherie, it is not unseemly for a man to
wish the company of a beautiful woman” Bolder than
usual, the general reached a hand to touch her cheek.
“You were brilliant tonight.” His hand drifted to her
neck. Cecile stiffened.

“You’re not wearing the little cameo I gave you last
week. I thought it would look especially lovely with
this dress. I picked out the coral for that reason”

Cecile met his dark gaze directly. “I am sorry to disappoint you. I had to buy food and medicines.”

The general’s eyebrows quirked upwards. “We could
solve your financial crisis with a more permanent
arrangement, ma petite. A house in a safe neighborhood, medicines and doctors for your brother, more
pretty dresses for you, your own maid and housekeeper.
You’d want for nothing.” He lowered his voice to a low,
seductive tone. “I don’t think you’d find me a demanding lover.”

“No, thank you. I must go” Cecile smiled politely
and fled down the steps, heading to the kitchen and the
little dressing room off it where she changed into her
gray serge gown. When she was ready, the cook handed her a satchel of leftovers wrapped in flour sacking.
Then Cecile drew close the hood of her dark cloak and
started the long walk home with the satchel in one hand
and her violin case in the other.

It was difficult to find the willpower to walk out into
the cold night after the warmth and luxury of the general’s home, particularly on nights like this one when
the rain drizzled in a fine, soaking mist. She hoped Etienne would have the fire built up in anticipation of her
return.

The well lit houses of the New Regime’s `nobility’
gave way to the darker slums where families could
barely afford food, let alone candles to light the night.
The darkness was a stark reminder of why she stalwartly refused the general’s repeated offers.
Napoleon’s new civic order hadn’t changed anything
for her or people like her. The direct taxes and the more
damaging indirect taxes levied to support the military
had drained the poor as surely as the earlier regime had.

Napoleon’s idea of avoiding the pitfalls of aristocracy
had been to institute the Legion of Honour followed
later by his creation of imperial titles. The only difference between the old and the new was that the new hierarchy was based on military merit instead of excluding
people from nobility based on the criteria of religion or
birth. What ensued was the development of a class of
wealthy generals like Murat and LeClerc and her own
employer General Motrineau. She knew that her employer had accumulated very little personal wealthy before kowtowing to Napoleon in 1804. Since then, he’d
acquired the means to buy a chateau in the country and maintain his elaborate house in Paris. He gave fancy
dinner parties regularly and hosted military balls. Rumor in the servant’s quarters suggested he was worth
nine hundred thousand francs. The sum dazzled her. It
mocked her excitement over the francs the stranger had
given her in the street.

She could have her share of his fortune if she’d just
give in. But her father had instilled in her the family
motto: La verite ou rien, “The truth or nothing.” The
truth was more than simply telling the truth. It was living the truth of your convictions through daily choices.
There could be no deviation.

Weary and wet, Cecile climbed the steps to her
room. Light peeped out from under the doorway. She
rejoiced. Etienne had built up the fire. The little room
was warm when she entered. One benefit of a small
home was that it didn’t take as much wood to heat, she
reminded herself.

Etienne was still awake, propped up on his pillows,
his face glowing and his eyes suspiciously bright. Cecile flew to his side. “Are you well?” She pressed a cold
hand against his forehead, searching for fever.

“Of course, silly.” Etienne struggled under her fussy
ministrations.

Cecile stepped back. “You looked feverish, was all”

“I look excited. I couldn’t sleep until I told you the
news. Madame Claubert stopped to look in and she told
me. The Panchettes are gone. You know, the bakers that
used to run the patisserie.”

“Gone? How do you mean?”

“They’ve disappeared, like their cousins did last month. There’s no sign of them. Their clothes are gone
too. Do you think the man you met today has anything
to do with it?”

Cecile was immediately worried. “You didn’t tell
Madame Claubert about my encounter did you?”

“No. Madame Claubert is the worst gossip in the
neighborhood.”

Cecile breathed easier. The New Regime might have
abolished the Tribunate and given power to the Senate
to protect the people, but there were still plenty of tools
at its disposal for oppression. The New Regime didn’t
tolerate dissent any more readily than the old regime.
She’d heard the generals remark at the dinner table
once that Napoleon was different than poor Louis XVI,
because he didn’t make the mistake of standing by and
letting the people criticize him. She’d seen what oppression had done to her parents in their old village.
She wasn’t about to risk trusting anyone with anything
that might somehow incriminate her.

Etienne was growing sleepy now that he’d shared his
news. He yawned. “CeeCee, since the Panchettes are
gone, do you think we might be able to rent their
rooms? I remember they had a lovely window on the
top floor that let in the sun. We could use some of the
extra money”

Cecile pushed back Etienne’s mop of dark hair.
There were only five years difference in their ages, but
she often felt more like his mother than his sister since
their parents had been killed three years ago, forcing
them to eventually make their way to Paris. She looked
at her brother’s droopy blue eyes. “Yes, I think that’s a
fine idea. I’ll make inquiries tomorrow.”

Cecile went to her own bed across the room and
changed into a nightgown. In spite of the day’s excitements, sleep came easily. That night she dreamed of a
tall, honey-haired man who walked through the city
tossing livres behind him like the pied piper. And she
followed him.

Alain paused for a moment, sweating with exertion,
his work shirt damp from his labors. He’d spent the
bright April morning working beside the bricklayers
and watching the foundations of the new buildings rise
from the trenches they’d meticulously dug. He turned
at the sound of horse hooves clattering on the cobblestones and shielded his eyes against the sun in order to
make out the rider.

“Alain! When did you return?” Daniel swung off his
horse in a lithe move, his sandy hair tousled from the
breeze. “Are the Panchettes safe?”

“We arrived yesterday evening. They are happily rejoined with their family after a mild crossing of the
Channel. You see, everything went off without any trouble and I am now the proud employer of not one but two
excellent pastry chefs. Care to dine with me tonight and
taste my success for yourself?” Alain greeted his friend
in high spirits. The mission had gone well. He hadn’t expected many problems beyond disguising his British
citizenship. The blockade situation between France and
England made it impossible to simply sail his yacht
across the Channel with the Union Jack flying high.

“Not one thing out of the ordinary?” Daniel queried
in disbelief.

“Not one thing.” Alain confirmed. Unless one
counted the prideful sherry-eyed miss he’d encountered
in the street. She was absolutely out of the ordinary
with her defiantly tilted chin. The floppy mob cap she
wore could not hide the lustrous chestnut curls of her
hair. He had been seized with a mad desire to pull off
her cap and free her tresses from their confines. He was
sure if he did, her hair would fall to her waist in a glorious spill of silky curls. It was not to his credit that he’d
dreamed of her ever since their meeting. Alicia had
only been dead a month. He owed her memory more
devotion than to dream of an unknown French girl
whose name he did not know and whom he would
never see again.

Daniel gazed at him thoughtfully, causing Alain to
shake himself back to the present. “You seem disappointed I don’t have tales of derring-do with which to
dazzle you.”

Daniel clapped him on the shoulder. “I am only glad
enough that you don’t have such tales to tell. I’ll let you
get back to work. I have to ride over to Romney this afternoon for a client. I’ll call at The Refuge for supper
when I get back”

Alain watched Daniel go, envious of his friend’s opportunity for a leisurely ride to Romney on such a brilliant spring day. He had managed to arrange for his morning to be taken up with the business of bricklayer,
but he could not put off the responsibilities of the estate. He would spend the afternoon poring over ledgers
and bills in the estate office. Alain raised his arm, signaling to the foreman that he was leaving. He would
treat himself to a stroll down the promenade before going home to The Refuge.

The breeze off the Channel cooled his heated body,
drying the splotches of sweat in his shirt. Alain
scooped up a handful of pebbles as he walked and
skipped them in the water. On such a clear day, the
coastline of France was visible. Only twelve miles separated France from where he stood.

Unbidden, his thoughts dared to drift towards the enticing stranger from the streets. What was she doing
now? Was she spending the money on useful items?
Was she saving it? Had she squandered the francs on a
fancy new gown and girlish fallals? He hoped she
would spend it prodigiously. He’d discerned she had
great need of it. He’d witnessed the fleeting struggle
she’d had with herself over trading the money for information about the Panchettes. Her pride and integrity
had won. Those were the qualities that impressed him
most, beyond the rich brown pools of her eyes and the
pearly translucence of her skin.