Paris, 1815

The cacophony of the Sunday bells, which had drowned out even the sharp clatter of the carriage horse's hooves as he had driven to the Rue Faubourg-Saint-Honore, seemed to have at last fallen silent, and Colonel Andre Cotard breathed a small sigh of relief. His head was not good after last night's celebration and this morning's ceremony, and he wished a moment's peace to compose himself before his interview with the commander in chief of the allied armies of France.

What business the Duke of Wellington had to discuss with him, he could not be certain, but neither the suddenness of the summons, nor the unorthodoxy of the appointed time could be construed as any indication of its importance. From his experience as a staff officer, Andre knew that it was merely another of the Duke's idiosyncrasies; he tended to his business when it suited him.

Andre did not know, either, if it was necessarily appropriate for him to appear, as he did, in levee dress, nor, given the fact that he had so recently tendered his request for resignation from the Duke's employ, if he should still have been wearing his aiguillettes, the insignia of an aide de camp. This morning's occasion had been a somewhat formal, but not a martial one, and so the aiguillettes had not been worn, nor his Peninsular Cross, with its four clasps, one for each of the battles at which he had been in the service of the Duke: The Pyrenees, Nivelles, Nive and Orthes.

In fact, he had not had the time to consider altering his dress, having come almost directly from church. But now it seemed he had been left to cool his heels in the ante-room, with no company but for a dozy sergeant at arms who stood at ease before the door to the general's office, and a rather old and ill-smelling greyhound that stretched itself with indolent disregard upon the very center of a priceless antique Turkoman carpet, snoring with perfect regularity, and farting with random but dependable frequency.

He had been informed by the secretary that the Duke had not yet returned from his morning ride. Seeking relief from the greyhound's relentless assault on his senses, he moved to the far end of the room, where a pair of story-tall, silk-draped windows flanked an enormous gilded mirror and a magnificent Louis XIV demi-lune. In the course of admiring the graceful alabaster figure of Britannia that rested there, he happened to glance at his reflection in the glass once, and then looked again, smiling with the realization that he half expected to see a change in himself since he had risen to dress this morning. But no, he was the same Andre Cotard, very much unchanged, in fact, in the course of some twenty years of war. His waving hair was now a good deal more of silver than of it's original deep brown, the creases around his eyes and mouth more pronounced. But at seven-and-forty years he was still a handsome man, he knew. Tall and lean in his beautifully cut coatee of scarlet with its dark blue facings and rows of silver lace, he had the figure and the supple grace of one much younger.

"There 'e comes now, sir," volunteered the sergeant at arms, and Andre looked out the window to see that the great man had indeed arrived. Curiously, he watched as the Duke dismounted from a tall grey, and turned to assist his companion, a strikingly pretty and decidedly very young woman, to come down from the back of the famous Copenhagen.

"Let's 'er ride the chestnut, 'e does," the sergeant continued, and Andre turned to give the man a look that should have let him know what he thought of his speaking out of turn to a superior---and with such familiarity!-- but the man seemed only to mistake him for interested in more gossip.  "Lady Shelley, sir," he said, with a wink and a twitch of his shoulder. "She's hot-arsed for 'im. But ain't they all? Bugger gets more crack than the whole rest o' the army---"

This time Andre drew himself up and gave the man an unmistakable look that silenced him immediately. Clearly the man spoke out of awe-inspired admiration rather than disrespect, but the lack of decorum of the British soldier had never ceased to shock Andre in all the years he had served with them. It seemed the Duke cared little for it, so long as his men fought well, and fought well they had. Like nothing the world had ever seen his "infamous army" had fought for him, for Wellington.

The double doors of the ante-room opened, and the Duke's secretary entered, bowed to Andre, and with a sweeping motion of his arm, that seemed to indicate that he was to follow, proceeded into the office. There were voices in the corridor, and Andre saw the Duke and his lovely companion framed in the doorway for a moment. She was laughing, and seemed to be complaining of the difficulty of controlling her unruly mount.

"My dear," Andre heard the Duke say teasingly, "It does amuse me so to see you try and cope. I believe you think the glory greater than the pleasure of riding him!"

He added another remark in a voice too low for Andre to hear, and her response was likewise inaudible, although her smile and the crimson flush of her cheeks left little to imagine of it's nature. Then, with a slight flip of one small, gloved hand she took her leave, turning to walk down the corridor in the direction of the Duke's private quarters.

"Colonel Cotard!" The sergeant at arms snapped sharply to attention as the Duke swept through the doorway. Andre saluted with a brisk bow. "You are waiting?" Wellington asked, addressing Andre initially, as he often did, in flawless French. "I should have thought that Grant would be here. We meet regularly at this hour. I am glad you are come. Please." He led the way through the opened office door, and to Andre's dismay, the greyhound, roused by the welcome sound of its master's voice, bounded to its feet and trotted in after him. Andre supposed he must be grateful, at least, that Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Colquhoun Grant had not been there to greet him. Besides being, to Andre's sensibility, an unpleasantly liverish man, Wellington's chief of intelligence was suspicious both by nature and experience, and he had always been one of those British officers who found it quite impossible to pardon Andre for having the exceeding bad form to have been born French.

"By God, I am powerfully thirsty," remarked the Duke. "Will you take some wine, Colonel?" The secretary had already moved to the credenza where a variety of well-stocked decanters were arrayed.

Andre accepted gratefully. Wine would be just the thing, he imagined, to chase away the last of the fug in his head. Brimming glass in hand, he accepted the Duke's invitation to sit, making himself comfortable in one of the commodious leather wing chairs that was drawn up on one long side of the vast, polished table that served as a desk. In contrast to the opulence of the outer chamber, the Duke's rooms were simply furnished, workmanlike and almost spare, much as his quarters had always been on campaign. Books and papers were precisely organized. A large map table stood before the windows that were barely dressed in order to let in maximum daylight.

Wellington himself was ever the example of manly elegance, dressed, as was his custom, in a plain but exquisitely tailored dark blue frock coat and faultless white buckskin breeches. Andre didn't wonder that women fell at his feet, for he was an undeniably arresting individual, in spite of, or even perhaps partly as a consequence of his cool and piercing blue eyes, and that remarkable hawk's beak of a nose. He was of an age with Andre, and appeared to be in the prime of physicality, the very picture of a noble warrior.

The Duke took a long draught from his glass, and then setting it down rather suddenly, stooped to look under the desk.

"Oh, I say, Cassius, dear old fellow, you stink! Joynson, if you would be so kind."

Andre sipped the Duke's excellent claret with some satisfaction as the greyhound was drawn out from under the table and removed to take the air. He sat back in comfort and waited.

"I have your letter of resignation, sir," began the Duke, with his usual lack of ceremony as the door closed behind his secretary. "The which, naturally, I cannot be moved willingly to accept."

Andre smiled, duly complimented, and nodded his head respectfully. "As your Grace must surely know, if your Grace truly has need of me, I serve, as ever, at your pleasure. But…as for Monsieur le Colonel Grant, surely your Grace must also know that it could not be in the best interest of…efficiency…for we two to be put to work together again?"

"Grant?" The Duke's eyebrows knitted for a moment. "Oh, no, you mistake me, sir, as I did say that I believed he would be here when you arrived. No, no, nothing of the sort. And I might add that I never had the occasion for complaint as regards your excellent work in the service of Lt. Colonel Grant. Nor, I can most confidently assert, has he, sir."

"It pleases me to hear you say so, your Grace," Andre replied, with a bit of an ironic smile. "As to my resignation, I trust that your Grace must understand my reasons."

The Duke laughed. "That you are to be married? Indeed, sir, you are to be felicitated. But what, pray, has it to do with a man's career? I give you my most sincere good wishes, Cotard, but surely you don't mean to spend the rest of your life in bed?"

Andre smiled again. The idea had merit, certainly, he mused to himself, but the Duke, he knew, did lack a certain romantic sentiment. Was it not he who had once said famously "Twenty-four hours is long enough for any man to remain in bed with the same woman?" Twenty-four years would not be enough, Andre thought, and God knew, he could only hope that he might have them yet.

"I thank you for your good wishes, your Grace," he said. "In fact, I am happy to tell you I was married this morning."

"Married this morning? Good God, have I taken you away from your wedding? Really, you might have sent a note, sir! And I am certain I received no invitation to this happy event! I assure you I should have been honored to attend."

"You do honor me, your Grace," Andre responded. "I am quite happy to have been asked here this morning and to have had this opportunity to speak to you once more. I know that my wife can forgive us both. The marriage ceremony was a very small and private affair, owing to certain circumstances, and we had planned no large celebration, for we are to depart Paris tomorrow morning," he bowed his head deferentially, "With your most gracious leave, of course."

The Duke drained his glass and rose to retrieve the decanter of claret. "Oh, of course, of course. " he said, coming to top up Andre's glass. "But I must tell you, Cotard, I have good men selling out and resigning left and right, these days. It is understandable of course. It was an abominably long war, and I, for one, pray that I have fought my last battle at Waterloo. I cannot fault any man who has sacrificed so many good years, for his desire to retire and live in peace."

Andre could only nod his agreement.

 "But as you know," the Duke continued, "By treaty we are bound to remain in occupation of France for not less than three years, and I do not mind confiding to you, sir, that I believe the successful organization of a dozen armies shall have been a simple and pleasing exercise in comparison with these politics in which we are now engaged!"

Andre did know. Between the Bonapartists and the ultra-royalists there seemed to be no solid middle ground on which to build, and it was by no means given that the majority of the French people were basically loyal to the occupying forces, joyful though they might be for their ultimate deliverance. This unstable state of affairs was actually quite understandable to Andre, for after more than twenty years of fighting, first against the corruption of the Republic, and then against the tyranny of Napoleon, he found that he could call himself neither Republican nor Royalist, and knew not where his opinion stood with regard to the future government of France. He felt that he did, as Wellington asserted, simply wish to live in peace. Did this mean that he had given up the fight…or was it only that he felt had nothing more to give to it?

He shook his head. "If your Grace means to suggest that I could be of any use to you in this diplomacy, I must tell you that I disagree. I am, at last, it seems, a man without a country. In my heart, my allegiance has always been to France alone, but to so many of my countrymen I am a man who fought against her, and to many of yours…well…" he gave a short laugh and shrugged.

"What I know you to be, sir, " the Duke interrupted him, "Is a man of great loyalty. I vow I have never seen such an abominable assortment of turncoats and swinging weathercocks as I have been pleased to meet in Paris! Indeed I could make good use of you should you care to accept what I offer!"

The honesty and regard in the man's eyes touched Andre. He did not question that the faith of nations could be placed in the trust of this man who had an uncanny ability for seeing the truth in things, and in men.

"And yet with respect, your Grace," he responded after a long, silent moment, "At this time I must decline your offer."

The Duke straightened and extended his hand and Andre stood to take it. "Then I must wish you well, Colonel Cotard. And I should very much like to make the acquaintance of your new bride at some time. I have been told that I took my time about marrying, but then Kitty turned me down the first time. Wise of her, poor creature, and the more fool I for asking again a dozen years later! But I must say, you sir, have left it rather late indeed!"

Andre laughed. "And you must imagine my surprise, your Grace, to find that it is so! We knew each other as children, you see, and it seems it has taken me all of these long years to find her once more. And I did not even know that I had been looking for her! But once I did find her…what else could I do?"

"My dear Cotard. Do not tell me you have married for love?"

"It is true!"

"Ha!" the Duke exclaimed, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Then God help you, sir. I do wish you well!"


Go to Part Two