We enter Velour's and sit at a corner table. There are several couples at other tables nearby. Wine is brought along with some plates of food.
"So you see, Jean-Paul, we are now out as boy and girl, just as you wanted," I say, putting my hand on his and giving myself a little bounce. "It is nice, n'est-ce pas?"
"You could not be more lovely," he says, ignoring the food and bringing his hot gaze full upon me. "I can't stand it."
"Yes, you can, mon cher," I answer. "Look here, Jean-Paul. We do not have all that much time together in this place, at this moment. Let us not waste it." I select a choice piece of pastry and put it to his lips. "And now a glass of wine with you. Please, Jean-Paul. Relax. Enjoy this."
He takes his wineglass and drinks from it, all the while not taking his eyes from mine. "All right," he says.
There is no music in this place and it is too bad. I'd really like to dance with him, but...
"Shall I sing you a song, Jean-Paul? Would you like me to do that?"
He nods and I stand to face him. Then I begin to sing.
Plaisir d'amour
Ne dure qu'un moment.
Chagrin d'amour
Dure toute la vie.
It is the same song I sang at the House of the Rising Sun in New Orleans, and one of the few love songs I know in French, although, thanks to Bardot, I now know plenty of really risqué ones. I'm about to give Jean-Paul the second verse when I'm shocked to see Bardot, himself, and two of his cronies come into the place, and he's looking right at me.
Damn!
I plunk myself back down in my chair real quick and nuzzle into Jean-Paul's side.
"Bravo," shouts Bardot, clapping his hands. "That was nicely sung, girl."
Right now this girl is very glad she made that decision never to sing while being Jacques Bouvier, else he might have recognized my voice!
I nod my thanks, shaking my wig's tresses even more into my face, but I needn't have worried—it ain't my face he's lookin' at.
"New girl, eh?" he says, his eyes fixed on my bodice. He sways slightly, plainly already a bit drunk. He looks at the other couples in the place, then sticks his hand in his pocket and pulls out some coins. "I'll give you ten francs for her. What do you say, boy?"
"Sir! I must protest!" cries Jean-Paul, jumping to his feet. "She is my fiancée, Sir, who has come to be with me here. She is a good girl from a good family, and I resent your insinuation!"
"That true?" asks Bardot of me, not looking particularly frightened by Jean-Paul. I nod with the big waif eyes and try to look very small.
"Damn me. Young love, of all things, here in this place," sighs Bardot, bowing to Jean-Paul. "I compliment you, M'sieur. She is a neat piece, and she must love you very much to come all this way. Well, enjoy her, boy. May your tent reverberate with her squeals of ecstasy. Adieu."
Bardot turns from us and looks about the place again and plainly does not find it to his liking.
"It's too quiet in here," he growls. "We need a tune, by God. Where the hell is Bouvier? We need his fiddle. Hmmm ... Maybe he's back at Augustine's by now." Bardot is quite well into his cups, it seems.
"I believe he carries messages to Murat concerning—" begins one of his comrades.
"To hell with all that. I need a song and I need a girl and I need them now and it's plain I'll get neither one here. Let's go, mes amis. Back to Augustine's."
That was a close one... I'm thinkin', slowly letting out my breath ... can't afford any more like that.
In the silence that follows I put my hand on Jean-Paul's. "Come, mon cher, let us take up our bottle and go. I still have some time left on my tent rental."
We have already paid for our food and drink, so we do not have to tarry on our way out. We cross the path, and I take his hand to lead him into my tent.
***
Somewhat later, there is a scratching on the outside of the tent and a voice says, "Time, M'sieur."
Our lips part and I catch my breath and say, "You must go, Jean-Paul. I must change and go back."
"I do not want to leave you, Jacqui, not now, not ever,—"
"You must, my dear. We will be missed."
In the dim light, I watch him stand and slowly put on his jacket and rebuckle his sword about his waist. When he is fully dressed he says, "I must have some token ... something of you, Jacqui, to carry with me into the fight."
I laugh, laying my head back against the pillow. "Like the knights of old, eh, Sir Jean of the Silken Mustache?"
How sweet.
"Very well, my bold chevalier, you shall have my silk scarf as your favor. Here." I stand and scoop it up off the floor where it fell soon after we entered the tent.
He takes it and presses it to his face. From the look in his eyes, I gather there is still some lingering perfume. I hope you enjoy it, Jean-Paul.
"One last kiss ... ummmm ... oh, yes ... now off with you. We'll meet again, my very good friend, and soon."
He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and stuffs my scarf behind the lapel of his jacket. Then he takes my hand and kisses the back of it, bows, and is gone.
I heave my own great sigh and climb back into my uniform, stuff my dress and wig back in my pouch, then I, too, am out of the tent and making my way back through the bars and brothels from which come much raucous laughter and voices raised in song.
I think about going into Augustine's and meeting up with Bardot again, but I decide against it and hurry past. I've had enough excitement for one day. And don't stretch your luck, girl...
I find that I have already extended it and stretched it very thin, indeed.
I see the tents of my Clodhoppers up ahead, beyond a small stand of trees, and am heading for my own sweet shelter when a hand reaches out from the shadows to grab me by the neck and drag me back into the trees. I see with horror that once again it is the drunken Guards' Sergeant who had tried to force himself upon me a couple of hours before.
He pulls my face up to his and I can smell the cheap rotgut brandy on his breath.
"You dare to touch an officer, man? You will be shot for that!" I bleat.
He grunts and presses his slobbery, whiskery mouth on mine. I jerk back, astounded.
"Officer, huh?" he asks, grinning widely. "I don't see no officer here, non. Hee, hee. What I see is a stupid girl. You know why? Because I sat and watched, I did, after your little pouf boy stuck his puny sword in my face and you went off with him. Oh, yes, I did, because I've got patience, I do, and I can wait for what I want. And then what did I see? I saw a boy and a girl go into that tent, and yes, I know it was a girl 'cause I seen her tétons about to pop out of her dress before. And then, later, the boy comes out. And then, what do you know? I bet you know, don't you? Right. Another boy comes out. Hee, hee ... Only, it's not a boy, it's you that comes out, dearie. What's a poor old Sergeant to think?" He runs his other hand over my tail and squeezes. "What's a poor old Sergeant to do? Hmmm?"
Oh, God!
"Oh, that's nice, oh yes, it is. Now what you are going to do is get behind that bush and drop your drawers, girl, all the way off, or else I'm gonna tell just about everybody what I know about a certain young officer, and you'll be dead. Think about it. Now get 'em off!"
He reaches for the buttons on his own britches and pushes me farther back into the bushes.
I fall down, then get to my knees and reach for my shiv ... but oh, no, it is not there. I had decided that there would be no need for it tonight, plus it would interfere with my getting into my female gear, so I left it wrapped up in its sheath in my knapsack.
Damn! Stupid!
I think to run so I stumble to my feet, but even if I managed to escape, he would tell, and I would be undone. I see no way out ... except to call out...
"Clodhoppers! To me!" I cry out, loud enough for my men to hear but not so loud as to alert the other encampments nearby.
"Now what the hell are you going on about, putain?" sneers the Sergeant. "You call for help and I'll just let everybody know about you. And they'll join in the fun, too. Now let us get on with it." He takes his hand from his belt and his trousers drop to the top of his gaiters. He shoves me to the ground, then puts his hand on the waist of my pants and tugs and then...
...then there is a dull thump! as the butt end of Corporal Laurent's musket hits the back of the Sergeant's head and he pitches forward, out cold as a dead cod.
I struggle away from him and manage to get back to my feet, as Laurent gives the fallen man's head another solid whack, just to make sure he's out.
"Tas de merde," sneers Laurent, sending a gob of spit in the Sergeant's direction.
"Laurent," I ask, regaining my breath and pulling my pants back up, but still despairing of the situation. "What did you hear him say?"
"Hear him say what ... M'sieur?" asks Laurent, looking at me with a sly smile. The moonlight glints off the white of his teeth. "Non. I heard nothing. Just that drunk cochon going on about some ... girl or other. Was that it, Lieutenant? Did you take his girl and he did not like it?"
"Um..."is all I can come up with. I have come to know that Laurent is sharp, very sharp indeed. I also know that now ... he knows ... and so do the others. He then gives a low whistle and the other poachers—Guerrette, Vedel, and Michaud—appear from the bushes, their muskets at Trail Arms, and they gather around me.
"Ah, well ... Still, he shouldn't have messed with an officer," says Laurent. "He could be shot for that, or, at the very least, brought up on charges."
But we look at each other and both know that cannot happen. If the Sergeant is arrested, he will tell, and then it will be me who is shot, not him.
"What to do, Laurent?" I ask, realizing that my life is now in his hands, and in the hands of my men.
"Do not worry, Lieutenant. If it pleases you, go to your tent. We will take care of this."
"Why would you do this for me, lads," I ask, suddenly very weary, "knowing what you know?"
"Who else would we want to lead us? Something like that?" says Laurent, kicking the leg of the man who lies in the dirt at our feet. "Non. We will stick with you, Lieutenant, till the end."
"Thank you, all of you," I say, and turn away. What must be done will be done, I know that; but I don't really want to know what is going to happen to the Sergeant. Not now, anyway.
I look down and notice that my drummer boy orderly is here, too, and that he has missed nothing. Christ! I heave a great sigh and throw my arm around his thin shoulders and say, "Let us go to our beds, Denis Dufour. It has been a long, long day."
Uh ... hullo, Jaimy ... I hope you are getting well and would not be too disappointed in me and how I have been behaving. Y'see, we go into battle soon, and who knows what's gonna happen? Both Jean-Paul and my own poor self could be lyin dead on some German field tomorrow. So, a glass of wine in a dismal bar, and just a few kisses here ... and, well, there, too ... what does it hurt? It ain't like I gave myself totally to him, no, Jaimy, not that. I'm still your lass till you tell me differently. But there are other games of love that two people who like each other a lot can play ... really, just a little of me and my usual messing around ... you know ... oh, never mind. But ... I gotta say this about Jean-Paul de Valdon—never have I been handled more gently, never have I been touched with more tenderness and love.