“You are doing it again,” he said tightly.
“I think my conversation amuses the general,” I said, lifting my fork.
“Do not worry about amusing him,” Rupert said as he stabbed his woodcock. “Your only concern is getting through this horror of an evening without anyone becoming the wiser as to who you are.”
I gave him a demure look that I hoped would signal my agreeableness, but he ignored me, eating his way stolidly through the course until the plates were changed. “You will give yourself indigestion if you carry on this way,” I advised Rupert as I turned back to the general.
The Frenchman was staring at his new plate mournfully. Slices of rosy beef were arranged artfully with piped pureed potatoes. “You see? Beefsteaks and potatoes,” he lamented.
I pointed to the menu.“Rosbif et pommes dauphines.”
He shrugged. “You may call it by a pretty name, but it is still the food of the British peasant.” He poked at the meat with his knife. “This steak is overcooked. It grieves upon my plate.”
The slices of beef were pink and succulent-looking, but every Frenchman I had ever known preferred his beef very nearly still on the hoof. I signaled to the footman behind me, who sprang to attention.
“Your Serene Highness?”
“I am afraid the general cannot eat his steak. Kindly bring him one that is much less thoroughly cooked. And a salad, lightly dressed with oil and vinegar.”
The footman whisked the offending plate away and the general gave a little crow of delight. He leaned towards me, his voice a caressing whisper. “You know, I say to myself, Achille, how can this lovely creature, so natural, so unspoilt, be a princess? I begin to doubt that you are the princess,” he said, smiling broadly. “Perhaps you are the faery changeling!”
A frisson of terror surged down my spine, icy as a chilblained finger. “Oh?” I said faintly.
“But then to see you command this fellow so expertly, I know you are a woman accustomed to giving the orders.” He regarded me with a practiced gleam in his eye. “Now I must mourn that you are a princess, so far out of reach,” he murmured. His gaze dropped lazily to my décolletage again and then rose, unwillingly it seemed, back to my face. “I think I will write poetry to you.”
“I beg you will not trouble yourself,” I told him.
“What is trouble when there is such beauty in the world?” he demanded. He launched into a lengthy poem in French, only half of which I understood, larded as it was with vernacular terms and metaphors that I suspected were slightly indecent. As the footman refilled his glass, I realized he had taken a great deal of the wine and had as yet consumed very little of the food.
He raised his glass to the light, studying the color. “Do you know, madame, there are those who say you should only taste wine from a goblet made of black glass so that the eye may not be fooled by the color, that only the senses of the nose and the tongue are to be trusted. But what a loss! See this beautiful color, like the velvet of my first mistress’s favorite gown. And the bouquet!” He inserted his nose deeply into the glass, sniffing hard. “Such heavy fruits! Cherries and the red currant, so subtle and ripe. This is a very good wine, a wine so good one may dine upon it.”
That seemed what he was inclined to do. He finished two more glasses before his food arrived, and when it did, he stared at his fork as if slightly confused by it. I exchanged my plate with his and cut his meat swiftly into little pieces before handing it back.
“Eat,” I ordered.
“I am yours to command,” he said with limpid eyes. He had eaten half the steak by the time the plates were cleared and there was a brief struggle as the footman removed his. The general clung to it, grumbling as he snatched another piece of steak.
The next course after the roasts was a lovely entremets of artichoke with a parsleyed white wine sauce. The general ignored his entirely in favor of picking desultorily at a jellied orange until the pudding course was served. He brightened at the fanciful display ofpoudingSax-Weimar, a chocolate pudding lavishly embellished with cream and butter biscuits. He took a spoonful, rolling his eyes ecstatically in pleasure and making rather unseemly noises of appreciation. The footmen had attempted to take his glass of Bordeaux and pour the dessert wine, but the general would not hear of it, holding it up protectively out of reach and snapping his teeth at the hapless servants.
“What the devil is happening over there?” Rupert demanded.
“The general is most appreciative of the vintage served with the meat,” I told him.
Rupert edged back in his chair and peered around me discreetly. “He is drunk as a lord,” he pronounced in obvious disgust.
“All the better,” I whispered. “It means he is less likely to notice any imposture on my part.”
The tablecloth moved as the general’s hand crept near, landing on my thigh. Rupert glanced down, reddening. “This cannot stand,” he began, half rising. “It is bad enough the man insisted on red wine being served during a course with artichokes, but this is quite too far.”
I clamped my hand over Rupert’s to stay him, careful to keep a smile on my lips in case we were observed. “I have the matter in hand, I assure you, Rupert. I have dealt with far more importunate men upon my travels. Leave it to me and eat your pudding.”
He subsided in his chair and applied himself to the sweet. The general’s hand crept higher, caressing the heavy satin draped over my thigh. Casually, I reached for my saltcellar, heaping the tiny spoon full.
“General,” I said suddenly, nodding towards the wall to his right, “is that painting French? I think it must be a Delacroix.” The paintingin question was a long canvas, some four yards at least, featuring the allegorical figure of Time being crowned by Glory and Honor.
He turned his head, giving me just enough time to drop the salt into his wine. “A Delacroix here? It would be unthinkable,” he pronounced, turning back to me in some befuddlement. “Delacroix is the greatest painter France has ever produced. It is impossible that such a vast canvas should not hang in the Louvre.”
“Silly me. I am not a scholar of art,” I told him with a modest air. “Now, we have a custom in the Alpenwald, that the last of the wine must be drunk very quickly,” I said, raising my own glass of muscat. “It is a sort of tradition. To ensure good health,” I added quickly. I quaffed the last swallow of wine in one go, then raised my glass to him.
