The Heroic Baron (6 page)

Alain was embarrassed for Cecile, knowing it must
feel awful to be treated like a prize won at a fair or like
a novel trinket acquired in some shop. “May I steal
your musician for a walk about the room? I know a little something about playing as well and I wanted her
opinion.” Alain asked, taking the opportunity to dislodge Cecile from the general’s side.

“Of course,” the general acquiesced graciously.
“You’re the new officer from Poland who has come to
help with training the new cavalry recruits. If you like
violin music that much, I’ll see to it that you’re invited to supper. I often have Cecile play at my supper parties.
It’s good for the digestion.”

Alain nodded his thanks and tucked Cecile’s hand in
the crook of his arm. It was a windfall that the general
had extended the invitation to visit. Now he had a reason to visit again. It was a stroke of fortune that the
visit would involve another chance to see Cecile. If the
tenseness of her hand was any indication, she did not
view it as a sign of good fortune.

“You don’t like me?” Alain queried casually while
they walked the perimeter of the drawing room. “I
thought you’d be glad of a chance to escape that insipid
woman.”

Cecile gave a small shrug. “Not glad enough to think
I owe you anything.”

“Of course not. I did not rescue you to put you under
obligation to me. I merely wanted you to myself.”

“So you don’t know anything about the violin.” Cecile’s voice was haughty and superior at uncovering
his ruse.

“I know I’ve not heard the instrument played quite as
well as I heard tonight.”

Cecile cast him a wary glance. “Are all Polish men as
glib of tongue as you, Monsieur?”

Alain laughed, the overloud sound drawing stares
from nearby couples. “I cannot speak for all Polish
men. But I would know why I have earned your scorn.”

“And I would know your name before disclosing
such information.” Cecile retorted.

“My name is Alain Stanislawski.” Alain quickly supplied, falling back on the identity he had laboriously
created for himself.

Cecile quirked a dark eyebrow. “Alain? Are there
many Polish men with French names?”

“My mother was French. Now it is your turn. What
have I done for you to dislike me?” They approached a
set of French doors leading out onto a veranda. Alain
deftly maneuvered through them, seeking the auditory
privacy of the balcony. They could be easily seen by the
others inside. The general could not reproach him for
treating Cecile’s reputation lightly.

Cecile disengaged her hand from the young officer’s
arm. “If you insist on knowing, it is because I cannot
abide a liar.”

“When have I lied to you? We’ve only known each
other for mere minutes.” Alain lowered his voice. “The
encounter in the street was hardly long enough for you
to start drawing conclusions about my moral fiber” Although he’d drawn plenty of conclusions about hers.

Cecile tipped her chin in the delightful way he was
coming to associate with her. “That day in the street
you did not tell me you were a soldier. You would have
me believe that you were an ordinary man looking for
the Panchettes. I am doubly glad now that I know your
true identity that I shared nothing with you.”

“I assure you, I meant them no harm” He had been
about to add `trust me,’ and realized at the last moment
how absurd she would find that statement coming from
a man whom she believed lied to her to obtain information. Instead, he said, “Why would it matter if I’d been
in uniform or not? You work for a soldier.”

Cecile gave him a sharp look that said he’d stepped
too far. “Monsieur, I must eat and pay my bills like
anyone else. It was this or harlotry. If you’ll excuse me, I need to return inside and mingle with the other
guests.” Cecile pushed past him, her silk skirts shushing against his white breeches, and disappeared inside.

Alain stayed awhile longer making polite conversation with other officers. His efforts to learn everything
he could about French military were clearly worthwhile. It had been a divine stroke of luck that the general had been looking for an officer to work with the
cavalry. He kept an eye on Cecile, watching her flit
from group to group, always careful to avoid his group.
A few single officers fawned over her hand. One of
them pressed a small box into it when he thought no
one was looking. But Alain had been looking and he’d
seen it. He thought it might be jewelry.

When it was acceptable to leave, Alain made his
farewells to the general and excused himself on the
grounds of having exercises in the morning. He headed
back to his temporary home on the Rue de Faubourg.
The crisp night air cleared his head after the hot drawing room. The evening had been more eventful than
he’d anticipated but in the wrong way. He’d not discovered the secretary yet. But he had discovered the delectable Cecile with her sharp tongue. Having found her,
Alain was reluctant to let her go without knowing more
about her.

Alain watched the French cavalry troops slowly and
somewhat awkwardly conduct their flanking maneuvers in the training arena not far from General
Motrineau’s mansion. The Prussian officer in charge of
training new cavalry for Napoleon’s army looked
askance at him as if to share Alain’s own sentiments
about the woeful quality of the French horsemen.

The unsuspecting Major Frederick von Hausman
was Alain’s superior for the duration of his masquerade. Alain found him to be an amicable orderly man of
extensive military background. He’d been brought to
Paris because of his experience with the elite Spanish
riding school in Vienna. Major Von Hausman’s specialty was training horses based on his background
with the Lipizzaner in Austria, leaving Alain to specialize in training riders. Fortunately, Alain was very comfortable in the saddle and the French cavalry so very uncomfortable that anything he offered them in terms
of riding technique would be of use.

Next to him, Major von Hausman shook his head in
despair. “Can they do nothing without trotting? They
must at least be able to canter through their maneuvers.
Whatever will they do on the battlefield?”

Alain nodded in agreement. “We must find a way to
make a success of their strengths. If they can only
charge at a trot, then we must recommend to their
commanding officers that they only be used in large
masses or after the artillery has cleared the way with
heavy fire”

Von Hausman stroked his well-groomed graying
beard. “There is wisdom in that, Captain. I will make a
note of it in my report to General Motrineau. By Jove, I
think you’re on to something. You’re a good thinker and
a fine horseman yourself. I’ve seen you on horseback
working with the men. Perhaps you might find a place
with the Cuirassiers or the Grenadiers a Cheval? Such
intense riding in combat is no doubt appealing to a
young man of your obvious talents.”

Alain shrugged noncommittally. The Curiassers,
also known as the Gros Freres, “the Big Brothers,”
were the heavily armored arm of Napoleon’s Grande
Armee. They could turn the direction of battle with the
weight of their armor alone. The Grenadiers a Cheval
were the Imperial Guard, the most elite of Napoleon’s
mounted forces. “I prefer the Lancers,” Alain said with
feigned pride.

Von Hausman laughed. “After defeating the British
at Albuera, I don’t doubt it. Napoleon was so impressed
with the Lancers heroic performance he’s converted several Dragoon regiments into Lancer regiments. I
would like to talk with you some day about Albuera.”

“Of course,” Alain responded, although he would
make sure the day for that discussion never came. He
had no more been to Albuera than he had been to
Poland. But the Polish Lancer victory had created an
easy cover for infiltrating General Motrineau’s ranks.
He’d been lucky enough to meet the real Captain
Stanislawski in a tavern en route to Paris.

Captain Stanislawski was no paragon of manhood.
He was a rabble rouser, quick to take offense and
quicker to drink. After a few rounds of ale with Alain,
the captain had taken exception to a comment made
about the military by one of the other patrons. Weapons
had been unsheathed, a brawl ensued and when the dust
settled, Captain Stanislawksi lay dead. Alain saw the
opportunity and took it. He had the uniform, the alibi,
and the letter of introduction to General Motrineau’s
staff. Alain couldn’t have planned it any better himself.
There was always the concern someone would figure
out he didn’t speak a word of Polish. Fortunately, Von
Hausman didn’t either. They both spoke French as a
second language, as did most of the military officers
he’d encountered.

The major dismissed the troops for the day. Alain
had the afternoon to himself. He hurriedly curried his
mount and saw him stabled with the other cavalry
horses. He cleaned up best he could at the pump in the
arena courtyard, washing away the obvious layer of
horsey smells and perspiration. A more thorough cleaning could wait until he got back to his lodgings on the
Faubourg. He’d change into a fresh uniform and get on with his plans; spending the afternoon attempting to
track down the elusive Cecile. He knew he’d see her
that night since he’d been invited to the general’s for
one of his dinner parties. It was a sign of how quickly
Alain had risen in General Motrineau’s favor that he
was being invited to the private supper party. He had
not yet been able to find the secretary, but he had plans
to unearth the secretary that night, which was why he
wanted to see Cecile that afternoon. If his plans went
well, he wouldn’t have time to devote to Cecile that
evening.

“Harker, good to see you,” Alain said with relief,
gaining the foyer of his temporary residence. It was always a joy to see Harker. The butler had insisted he go
with Alain. So had his valet, Cranston, who spoke no
French but knew how to turn out a well-dressed gentleman regardless. Alain had consented to bring them
both under the condition they keep their mouths shut.
He was glad for the decision. Hiring French staff would
have been far too risky and it would have been exhausting to be masquerading as Captain Stanislawski day
and night.

Their presence also helped keep up the pretense that
he was a captain. The house on the Faubourg was comfortable and well appointed, as befit an officer of rank.
Captains were expected to purchase their own uniforms
and equipment as well as maintain a suitable social
lifestyle according to their station in life. For instance,
to be a Lancer, one must be a son of a landowner. It
would not do for Alain to live in the barracks with only
a batman.

“Lay out my clean uniform, Cranston, I hope to make an afternoon call,” Alain instructed. “On second
thought, lay out some civilian wear.” If he did find Cecile, he didn’t want to put her off by reminding her of
his association with the military.

The bell on the door jingled when Cecile stepped
into the musty little shop. She disliked coming here but
there was little choice unless she was willing to walk
blocks out of her way to another pawn shop. She had as
little time as she had money. Such a consuming walk
was not possible when people waited on her. A list of
errands she needed to run for the sick and elderly lay
securely in the bottom of her basket. She had plenty to
do before going to the general’s that evening.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle.” The fat, greasy man behind the counter greeted her, his permanent leer evident on his face. He came around the corner of the
counter, wiping dirty hands on an apron that was dirtier still. “What can I help you with today? Business
must be good for you. This is the second time you’ve
been here the past week and half.” He eyed her with
overt rapaciousness.

Cecile had deliberately worn her drabbest dress, a
fusty brown muslin with not even a bit of lace for trim.
The gown was dull and frumpy, doing nothing to hint at
the figure beneath it. The dress was not having the effect she desired. She cleared her throat. “Monsieur, I
have a lovely brooch I’d like to pawn” With utmost
care, Cecile unwrapped the piece of jewelry a young
admirer had given her two weeks ago at the general’s
soiree. The brooch was in the shape of a peacock. Lapis
lazuli made up the blue body of the bird. Semi-precious gems made up the elongated fanned tail. A tiny diamond chip served for an eye.

Without being a student of gems, Cecile had recognized immediately the piece was not a mere trinket.
The price it would bring would leave something for her
to save after she’d helped the others. Putting some
money aside had become imperative. She’d saved a very
small portion of the stranger’s money and she must endeavor to save some of the money from the brooch. The
general’s talk with her at the soiree had been a stark reminder of the inevitable. He would leave one day and
go back to the battlefield. Work was already scarce.
Once the military left Paris, jobs would be more difficult to come by. She, like so many, depended on the
military presence for all nature of jobs ranging from
laundry to tailoring to vending.