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Soult was not good with people. When Napoleon hosted such grand balls like these for the court of the empire, he always invited his marshals. And Soult was, naturally, obligated to attend. She hated it. She didn’t like being out of her soldier’s uniform, in a dress. She didn’t like the high voices of laughter of the wealthiest of the wealthy, the ones who had never seen the spoils of war. But most of all she hated dancing. Her sore knee, her knee that she’d cut open herself back in 1800,, had always pained her to use. Walking was alright, but she had never been able to run the same. And when she danced, sometimes she would feel a sharp pain shoot through her knee. It was humiliating, and she preferred to stand at the side and watch the others dance.
So when these balls took place she normally sought refuge in the winding hallways of the Tuileries, because she always liked staring into the portraits and paintings that hung upon the walls. She had sometimes wished to take them home, but there was no way Napoleon would ever allow that. So she just stared at them.
Eventually the sight of a roaming, limping woman with battle scars poking out of her dress became such a shocking sight to the French nobility that Napoleon himself had caught wind of it, and had to assure them that there were, in fact, no such things as ghosts, and that that woman was actually one of his marshals. And Soult was banned from haunting the hallways.
Now, the great Iron Arm, proclaimed by the emperor as the best manoeuvrer in Europe, idled in the corner, with a glass of red wine in her hand, glaring at anyone who dared come near her, effectively securing total solitude for herself without anyone attempting to strike up a conversation. She drank her wine in sips before the feeling of boredom came creeping upon her.
Soult was not the kind of person who became restless when bored, but the atmosphere was becoming unbearable. The orchestra, the sounds of shoes upon the dance floor, and the gossips of the court were different from the great boom of cannons upon the dignified battlefields. So she stood up and left the ballroom.
The sound of her limping footsteps echoed through the hall, wandering aimlessly, taking advantage of her soldier’s senses. Left, right, left, left, down the hall.
She blinked. The kitchen.
She watched as a chef swirled his stews around his pot, the wood of his spoon waltzing around the rim of the steel pot. The aromas of all kinds of French cuisine, the savoury and the sweet, filled her nostrils. But one stood out to her, the most amazing of them all: the smell of bread.
Soult wondered to herself. Could she?
“Excusez-moi,” she asked a passing maid, “could I get a bit of flour?”
“Dough? Get it yourself! It’s in that cabinet over there.”
Soult was shocked by the brashness of the maid, but she wasn’t surprised. She wasn’t wearing a marshal’s uniform or holding a marshal’s baton. Here, she was just another woman who worked for Napoleon, standing in the kitchen of the Tuileries. She nodded and walked towards the cabinets.
—--
Michelle Ney had noticed her co-worker Soult sulking in the corner, drinking wine, earlier, but the minute she blinked, Soult was gone, and had left her cup of wine on the table. Ney turned her gaze towards the grand entrance of the ballroom that led to the hallway, and saw the swish of Soult’s dress fading out of the doorframe.
Without thinking, Ney grabbed the half-full glass of wine that Soult had left behind, and ran after her. When she left the ballroom, she saw practically running down the hall.
“Soult!” she cried, “you forgot your-!” but Soult was gone.
“Where on Earth is she going?” Ney muttered to herself, following Soult. Ney herself didn’t know why she was so eager to return the glass. She didn’t like Soult, and Soult didn’t like her. Soult was the scum of the Earth. She was greedy and selfish. Yet…
Ney watched as Soult paused at the entrance of the kitchen, before entering. The kitchen! thought Ney to herself, why the kitchen? Is the King of Portugal playing at being a servant?
Ney sniggered at her own joke before stepping into the kitchen. It was swarming with scullery maids, servants and chefs dashing madly up and down the kitchen, making food, delivering them to the dining table, cleaning dishes. Napoleon had many a guest to feed, it’s true, but Ney never considered the fact that he needed so many people working the kitchen!
She wandered around the large kitchen, attempting to avoid the mad rush of people around her. To her astonishment, Soult was in the corner, kneading a small amount of dough in a bowl.
It was clear she had just started, since all her ingredients were still fresh and strewn around her.
“What are you doing here?” asked Soult, without turning around. She sounded already agitated,
“You’re… Making bread? What kind of soldier are you?” asked Ney, almost laughing. Soult flushed and scowled.
“Who says I can’t make bread?”
“I’m just saying, it’s very strange. You don’t seem like someone who bakes to me.”
Soult stopped and rested the tips of her fingers -on the edge of the table.
“Before my father died, I wanted to be a baker,” she said, matter-of-factly, “He always wanted me to be a lawyer, though.”
“Oh!” laughed Ney, “My dad wanted me to be a lawyer too! Wasn’t for me, though.”
Soult curled her lip. “You’d be a terrible lawyer.”
Ney looked genuinely offended. “Why?”
“You’d argue your head off without actually stating the case! Mon dieu!”
Ney wanted to insist it wasn’t true, but it was. So she changed the subject.
“Why didn’t you become a baker, then?”
“Like I said, my father died. My poor mother! I have five little siblings, you know. I was the oldest. My brother was too young to work, so I ran away from school and joined the army. I was only sixteen.”
“Oh,” said Ney, unsure of what to say. She looked at Soult again, and she was still red, clearly embarrassed that she had said so much.
“What are you here for then?” said Soult, wiping off her hands.
“Oh yeah. You left this. Back at the ballroom,” said Ney, offering her the glass. Soult took it silently.
“It’s totally warm now! How long have you been holding it?”
Ney shrugged, “A while, I guess.”
Soult nodded. “Okay,” she said, as if holding back an insult, “You can go now.”
“I know,” she said, turning around, before hesitating and walking right into Soult again, who was tapping a bowl of flour into the dough.
“Watch where you’re going!” hissed Soult. Ney didn’t apologise.
“Can I.. help?”
“You? Help me? Are you drunk?”
“A little,” Ney admitted, “but you must be drunk too! You’re talking way more than usual. And the way you stumbled down the hall was not at all like someone who is sober.”
Soult sighed, exasperated. She didn’t want to admit Ney was right.
“You know, Ney? You’re a huge pain in the ass.”
“What does that mean?” said Ney, angrily, as if ready to duel her on the spot.
“Calm down! This is exactly what I’m talking about. If you’re so desperate to punch something, why don’t you try kneading this? Just do what I did.”
Ney watched as Soult dusted her hands off, and wiping her own hands on her dress, started kneading the dough. She tried to do it exactly as Soult had done, kneading it for a few minutes and then letting it rest for a couple more, and repeated it again and again.
–
“Okay, that’s enough!” cried Soult, who had been oiling a bowl and was now wetting a piece of cloth with a jug of water.
Ney laughed, and she could have sworn from the corner of her eye that Soult was smiling as well.
“Now we let it sit.”
“How long does that take?”
“One… or maybe two hours?”
“What? The ball will be over by then!”
“It’ll be fine as long as no one notices us,” said Soult, although she still seemed nervous, and cupped the bowl of rising dough in her arm and yawned. Indeed, the kitchen was now emptier, the food was being served and was thus leaving the kitchen. Some servants had now retreated back to their quarters or attended to their other duties.
Soult sat on a small bench by the kitchen counter that she was using.
“I think I’ll close my eyes for a bit.”
“You’ll get a headache if you sleep.”
“I never said I was sleeping.”
Ney sighed. “Okay. I’ll take this from you, then,” she said, coaxing the bowl out of Soult’s arms. As Soult dozed off, Ney felt bored once again, so she walked off, with the bowl still in arm.
She watched as some guests started leaving, when suddenly she felt the full force of a small figure walking right into her. It was none other than Jeanne Lannes.
“Ney! Where have you been? I was looking for you, you know?”
“I was… busy.”
Lannes frowned. “Is that… bread?”
“Dough, actually.”
“Why are you carrying around a bowl of dough?”
“I’m taking care of it for Soult.”
“You’re doing a favour for Soult? Of all people?”
“I know right? I must be ill.”
Lannes laughed before asking, “Murat and I are going riding, want to come?”
“Sure!” said Ney cheerfully.
–
They went to the stables together, where Murat was already galloping on some fantastic white horse.
“Salut, Ney! Ça va?”
Ney nodded.
“Uh, Lannes? Where should I put this?” she asked, gesturing to the bowl. Lannes was already on her horse.
“I dunno, just put it on the ground or something. You can get it back later.”
—
Eventually it was getting so dark that they could barely even see each other, the last scraps of light swallowed up by the low rafters and the restless shifting of the horses.
“Right,” Lannes called, staring directly into Murat’s silhouette “that’s enough before ONE of us rides straight into a wall.”
Murat sighed dramatically, slowing her white horse to a prancing trot. “You’re so mean! I didn’t even do anything!
Ney shrugged, “I mean, you did almost run into a tree”
Murat waved a hand at her. “I meant to do that.”
One by one, they dismounted, shoes thudding softly against the packed earth. Lannes lit a lamp, and the warm, flickering light spilled across the stalls.
Ney blinked, adjusting to the glow, and then froze.
“…Wait a minute.” She knew she was forgetting something, but what?
Murat’s horse had its head lowered suspiciously, chewing with an aura of fascination, as if it had just discovered the greatest delicacy known to horsekind.
“What,” began Ney slowly, “is your horse eating?”
A sharp crack interrupted her.
Ney shrieked. “Soult’s gonna kill me!”
“What is it?” asked Murat.
“It’s bread dough. I don’t think your horse should be eating that, though,” said Lannes.
“You guys, you have to help me replace the dough.”
“Sure!” said Murat, who had finished prying her horse away from the dough, “how hard can it be?”