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Epilogue
I trudge back to my old neighborhood, the rue de Londres, go into Café des Deux Chats, and plunk down my knapsack. The familiar smells envelop me like an embrace from an old friend. Because of my uniform, I am greeted by great cheers, and I'm thinking that I must soon get back into my female garb, else I might get shot as a deserter when the glow of this great victory wears off. But I do have that other Imperial Seal, the one that Murat insisted I keep, so that should hold me in good stead.
I sit down and order a great bowl of bouillabaisse, and when it comes I tie my napkin around my neck and bury my face in its goodness, spooning up great mouthfuls. I rip chunks off the bread given me and dip it in the stew and shove it in my mouth. Oh, God, it's good! Wine, yes, wine, too, and more of it.
No matter what happens to Jacky Faber, her belly still rules.
On my way here I took a detour to a small town, Château Thierry, figuring the Empress could wait a bit for her good news, and delivered news of another sort to a family who lived there. It was a nice house by a river and I pulled up and dismounted, and then Jacky Faber, the Angel of Death, went up to the front door and knocked, with my sad burden in my hand.
My knock was answered by a tall man with gray hair and beard, who nevertheless looked very much like Bardot, and who, as soon as he saw me and what I held in my hands, knew what awful news I had brought. A woman came into the room, and seeing the tears pour down my face, immediately sat down and buried her face in her hands.
"I...I am sorry to tell you this, but your son Captain Pierre Bardot is dead. He was a brave man and a good friend to me." I was gasping for breath then, but I pushed on. "I was with him when he died and I want you to know that he died easy. He told me of letters to you that he had in his pocket and I swore to him that I would deliver them. Oh, God. I can't stand it!"
I fell to my knees on the floor and covered my own face with my hands. "I saw him die and I saw him buried proper, and here is his jacket and his sword," I wail. "He ... he gave the sword to me, but you should have it ... I..."
The father puts his hands on my shaking shoulders and says, "No. You shall keep the sword, boy. I want no other son of mine to take it up and go off to war. One son for France is enough. Thank you for coming to us this way. I know it is hard for you, for it is plain that you loved him as we did. It ... it is good to know that he had a friend as constant as you. It will be a comfort to us later."
I picked myself up and staggered out and left them to their grief.
When I got to Paris, I took myself, and my horse, whom I had named Rudolf, in honor of his German heritage, to Le Palais de Tuileries and marched Rudy straight up the front steps, scattering various overdressed minions, and announced that I had a message from the Emperor Napoléon to the Empress Joséphine, and was met with much derisive laughter, considering the state of my clothing and general dishevelment.
"Not long ago, I was on the battlefield of Jena, next to l'Empereur," I say to the man guarding the door. "What were you doing on that day, M'sieur? Powdering your bum?" With that I whip out the safe passage with the big blue N, signed by Napoléon himself. He doesn't say anything after that, so I dismount and am ushered into the palace. Rudy, however, has to stay outside. Pity, that.
It is, of course, a glorious place, but I think I am done with glory and glorious things and all that so I am not cowed by it all.
I am asked for the letter, but I wave them off and I tell them that l'Empereur desired that I place the letter directly in Joséphine's own hand, and that they should all bugger off as I am growing impatient with mincing, groveling courtiers.
I am told to wait, so I flop myself down in a gilt chair that, if sold, I know could keep the London Home for Little Wanderers going for at least ten years. My eyes range over the paintings on the wall, the fine tapestries, the elegant statues, and I find myself falling asleep again.
Eventually I am roused and escorted into the Empress's inner chambers. She, dressed beautifully, of course, is seated at a desk and surrounded by ladies of the court. She looks up, I bow, present the letter, accept her thanks, and then walk backward out of the room, 'cause that's what you do with royalty—you ain't never supposed to show 'em your ass is why.
Funny, I thought as I left the place, she looked like any ordinary woman, under all that finery.
I had taken Rudy to the stable where I had bought Mathilde—was it only three weeks ago that I did that?—as the people there seemed to have been kind to Mathilde when she was a resident here. 'Course, I only get ten sous on the franc, but what the hell, it will be enough to hold me for a while and I am getting hungry. The bridle and saddle go with him, too, the saddle being well polished by my bottom over these past weeks. I keep my pistols and shove them into my knapsack and shoulder it. Bardot's saber, which is too long for me to wear about my waist, as it would drag the ground, I have strapped to my back such that the hilt rides above my right shoulder and the scabbard does not get in my way. I had lost my other sword in the battle, when I was thrown from my horse. Never had much of a chance to name that other one, and I ain't named this one yet as I've got to think hard on that, what with it being given to me by Bardot and all. Looking like a proper Tartar, I headed off to my old neighborhood.
I have no idea just what is going to happen to me now and where I will be going. Probably back to Madame Pelletier's and, well, there are worse things in the world than that. And it will be good to see Zoé and the girls again. I don't know, I'll just wait and see what happens.
I knew they would find me here, and sure enough, Jardineaux comes through the door just as I am finishing up, and sits down before me. I signal for a glass of wine for him, as it would look suspicious otherwise. I am learning this game.
"So," he says, ignoring the wine. "Report."
"The Grand Army is in Berlin. Kaiser Friedrich Wilhelm III has capitulated. The Fourth Coalition is shattered. Except for Russia, there are no more anti-Napoléon forces out there. Not to the north anyway. I hear Lord Wellesley is kicking up a fuss in Spain, though, but I'm sure you know about that. I believe Bonaparte intends to move his army north and fight Czar Alexander next year. I heard this from Marshals Lannes and Bertrand and Murat." I pick up a mussel shell from the stew and suck on it. "That Prince Murat is quite a fellow. We should have a few like him ourselves."
He gives a bit of a choke. "And just where did you meet these men?"
"In Napoléon's camp, and at the head of their various Corps. At Jena. Before, during, and after the battle."
"But how...? You...?"He now takes a drink of his wine.
"I was a messenger, remember? Of course I would be there. A fly on the wall, as it were, but there all the same. I do hold a commission as a Second Lieutenant in the Sixteenth Fusiliers. I have my papers in my pocket." I tap my breast pocket, but I do not tell him of that special message I had delivered at the start of the battle.
I take the napkin from my neck and dab at my lips.
"Mon Dieu," exclaims Jardineaux, seeing the medal on my jacket. "What the hell is that?"
"What? Oh, that is the Legion of Honor Medal. Apparently l'Empereur thought I fought bravely at Jena. He was wrong. I was not brave, but I did do my duty for my men, I think, and so I shall keep it. Another glass of wine with you?"
His eyes bug out in amazement. "But how did you get it?"
"The Emperor put it around my neck in his carriage as we were leaving the battlefield. He had offered me a lift, you see, and—"
"You were in the same carriage with that monster?" Jardineaux's face is becoming quite red.
"Yes," I say, and polish off the last of the bread. "I thought that was where you wanted me to be. Actually, I fell asleep in his lap on the way." I chuckle, well beyond caring about what Jardineaux thinks. "I am here because he wanted me to deliver a letter to the Empress. Which I did. Earlier today. She was quite gracious."
Jardineaux fixes me with his eye. "Let me get this straight. You were in the same carriage with Napoléon Bonaparte. I know you carry a knife up your sleeve. Why did you not kill him then? Were you afraid for your miserable little life? Did you think you counted for all that much that you could not do that simple thing and rid the world forever of the greatest tyrant it has ever known?"
"He did not seem like such a monster. He takes care of his men. He takes care of his people."
"I think you have been turned, girl. I suspect your loyalty," he says, his voice low, even, and hard. "...and I believe we are done with you."
"My loyalty? To what? To crazy old King George who never did nothin' for me 'cept send his men to hunt me down like some poor fox what ain't done nothin' to him? And done with me? Fine. I did my best. If it wasn't good enough for you, I am sorry, but, no, not really—I dislike you and I hate this business. Now let me go home."
"Oh, you shall go home all right," he says, ominously, "and you shall go there today. Get up."
A coldness comes over me. What does he mean by that? What have I done that was so wrong? Could it be...
"Get up, I told you!" he snarls and, furious, he gets to his feet. He grabs me by the arm and hustles me out of the place. Startled faces watch us go and some speak up.
Here, here, Sir! You cannot treat a soldier so!
Soldier? Ha! This is not a soldier! It is a deserter, a damned traitor! Get out of my way!
He drags me to the street, and I see Armand waiting there with the carriage and I am taken up and thrown in. My knapsack follows.
"To the docks!" roars Jardineaux, and the coach rattles off.
I get off the floor and crawl up into the seat and turn around and my jaw drops open in surprise as I see Jean-Paul de Valdon is sitting in the seat opposite me, dressed, once again, in his civilian clothes.
"Jean-Paul!" I exclaim. "I am so glad to see that you are safe! I searched everywhere for you after the battle but could not find you! Oh, I am so glad!" I reach for his hands.
But he does not take them. Jean-Paul's face is set, stony, devoid of expression. He leans across, yes, but not to embrace me; no, instead he pushes my hands away and reaches up my sleeve to take out my shiv. He tucks it into his jacket and then he looks out the window as we start off. He does not look at me, he does not meet my eyes.
"Jean-Paul, I—"
"It would be better, girl, if you said nothing," he says, his voice cold, disinterested.
My mouth is open in disbelief.
Jean-Paul, no! This cannot be! Not you!
"You see," says Jardineaux, smiling, "we have had word of your actions at Jena; oh, no, not from Monsieur Valdon here. He was otherwise occupied, but we had other operatives in the field and they informed me that you had conveyed many messages back and forth between the commanders of Napoléon's cursed Corps, and thus had many opportunities to cause them great confusion, but you did not. No, no, you did not."
He keeps smiling, and I can only think that he had that same smile on his face that day when he handed up that poor girl to the executioner to have her head cut off in my place, and now I know that it is my turn and I know he will smile when he does me, too.