But I refused to be interrupted any longer. ‘By the way,’ I repeated, ‘I have invited them both for to-morrow.’
Then I started quickly on my soup, because I knew how they were all looking at me in horror.
‘Whom have you invited, my child?’ Mama asked.
‘Two young gentlemen. Citoyen Joseph Boonapat or whatever it is, and his young brother the General.’
‘That has got to be stopped,’ Etienne shouted, banging the table. ‘We don’t want a couple of escaped Corsican adventurers we know nothing about!’
‘And it’s not proper,’ said Mama, ‘for you to invite a chance acquaintance in a Government office. That is not the way to behave. You are no longer a child, Eugenie!’
‘That is the first time anyone,’ I exclaimed, ‘has told me I’m no longer a child!’
‘Eugenie, I am ashamed of you,’ said Julie.
‘But these Corsican refugees have so few friends in the town,’ I ventured. I hoped Mama would sympathise.
‘What do we know of them? Out of the question!’ Etienne grunted. His recent experiences had set his nerves on edge. ‘You are a disgrace to the family!’ he shouted.
‘Etienne, she’s only a child, and doesn’t realise what she has done,’ said Mama.
That upset me entirely. ‘Please understand,’ I said, ‘once for all, that I am neither a child nor a disgrace!’
There was a moment’s silence. Then Mama said with all the imitation sternness she could put on: ‘Go to your room at once, Eugenie!’
‘But I’m still hungry, I’ve only begun my meal,’ I protested.
Mama’s silver bell rang again. ‘Marie, please serve Mademoiselle Eugenie’s meal in her room,’ she said. Then she turned very kindly to me: ‘Go along, my child, have a good rest, and just think about the way you have been behaving. It has distressed your mother and your good brother. Good night, my child.’
Marie brought my supper up to the bedroom, and sat on Julie’s bed.
‘What’s amiss? What’s upset them all?’ she asked sympathetically.
When we are alone Marie always calls me tu; she is my friend and not a servant. After all, she came to us years ago to be my wet-nurse, and I believe she loves me as much as her own natural son, Pierre, who is being brought up somewhere in the countryside.
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘It’s all because I’ve invited two young men for to-morrow.’
Marie nodded thoughtfully. ‘Very clever of you, Eugenie. It’s time Mademoiselle Julie met some young men.’
Marie and I always understand each other.
‘Shall I make you a cup of chocolate?’ she whispered. ‘From our private store?’ For Marie and I have a private store of delicacies which Mama doesn’t know about. Marie gets the things from the larder, without asking.
After I had drunk the chocolate, when I was alone, I began to write it all down. Now it’s midnight and Julie is still downstairs. It’s horrid of them to leave me out.
Julie has just come in and is beginning to get undressed. Mama has decided to receive the two gentlemen to-morrow. The invitation could hardly be cancelled. So Julie told me, as if it was nothing. ‘But I’ve been told to tell you that it will be their first and last visit.’
Julie standing in front of the mirror rubbing cream on her face. The cream is called Lily Dew. Julie read somewhere that even in prison the Dubarry always used Lily Dew. But Julie will never be a Dubarry. Now she is asking whether he is handsome.
‘Who?’ I asked, pretending to be stupid.
‘This gentleman who brought you home.’
‘Very handsome by moonlight. Very handsome by lantern light. But I’ve not yet seen him by daylight.’
That’s all I could tell her.
Marseilles at the beginning of Prairial. (The lovely month of May, says Mama, is almost over)
His name is Napoleone.
When I wake in the morning and think of him, my heart lies like a heavy lump in my breast, from sheer loving. (I lie with my eyes shut, so that Julie shall think I’m still asleep.) I didn’t know you could really feel love – I mean, bodily. With me it’s like something tugging round my heart.
But I had better tell it all just as it happened, starting from the afternoon when the two Buonapartes came to see us. As I had arranged with Joseph Buonaparte, they came the day after my failure to see Deputy Albitte. They came late in the afternoon. Etienne is not usually home by then, but he had shut up the shop and was waiting in the parlour with Mama, so that the young men should see at once that our home is not without a male protector.
Nobody had spoken more than a few words to me during the day, and I could see they were still vexed with my bad behaviour. After dinner Julie had disappeared into the kitchen; she had decided to make a cake. Mama said there was no need; she was still full of Etienne’s idea of ‘Corsican adventurers’.
I went into the garden for a bit. Spring was in the air already, and I found the first buds on the lilac trees. Then I asked Marie for a duster and did some dusting in the summer-house – in case, I thought. When I went in with the duster I saw Julie in the kitchen. She was taking a cake-tin out of the oven; her face was burning and her forehead damp with perspiration, and her hair was just ruined.
‘You’re going the wrong way about it, Julie,’ I blurted out.
‘Why? I kept exactly to Mama’s recipe, and you just see if our guests don’t like it.’
‘I didn’t mean the cake,’ I said, ‘I meant your face and your hair. You’ll smell of the cooking when the gentlemen come, and—’ I paused—’ for heaven’s sake give it up, Julie, and go and powder your nose. That’s much more important.’
‘What do you think of that, Marie?’ said Julie, irritated.
‘If you don’t mind my saying so, Mademoiselle Julie, I think it’s quite right,’ said Marie as she took over the cake-tin.
In our room Julie did her hair and carefully put on some rouge, while I stood at the window and looked out.
‘Aren’t you changing?’Julie asked in surprise. But I didn’t see any real need for it. Of course I quite liked Monsieur Joseph, but in my mind I had already betrothed him to Julie. As for his brother the General, I could not imagine him taking any notice of me. Nor had I any idea what you talk about to a General. I was only interested in his uniform, though I hoped he would tell us about the fighting at Valmy and Wattignies. ‘I do hope,’ I was thinking all the time, ‘that Etienne will be courteous and amiable; and that it will all end well.’ As I looked out of the window I got more and more troubled about it. Then I saw them coming! They were having a lively discussion as they came along. And I was inexpressibly disappointed!
Well, there! He was a little man, shorter than Monsieur Joseph, and Joseph himself is only middle-sized. And he had nothing striking on at all, not a single star, or ribbon of any order. Only when they reached the gate did I see his narrow gold epaulettes. His uniform was dark green, and his top-boots were not polished and not even a good fit. I couldn’t see his face because it was hidden by an enormous hat, with nothing on it but the cockade of the Republic. I didn’t dream that a General could look so drab. I was disappointed.
‘He looks very poverty-stricken,’ I murmured.
Julie had joined me at the window, but she kept behind the curtain. I suppose she didn’t want the two citizens to see how curious she was.
‘Why do you say that?’ she said. ‘He looks very handsome! You can’t expect a secretary at the Maison Commune to be very spick and span.’
‘Oh, you mean Monsieur Joseph? Yes, he looks quite elegant; at all events someone seems to brush his boots regularly. But look at his young brother, the General!’ I sighed and shook my head. ‘Such a disappointment! I had no idea that there were such undersized officers in the army.’
‘What did you think he would be like?’ Julie asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Why, like a General. Like a man who gives you the feeling that he can really command.’
To think that all that h
appened only two months ago! It seems an eternity.
When Julie and I went into the parlour, the two brothers jumped up and bowed almost too politely, not only to Julie but to me too. Then we all sat, stiff and strained, round the oval mahogany table. Mama was on the sofa, with Joseph Buonaparte next to her. On the other side of the table sat the poverty-stricken General, on the most uncomfortable chair in the house, with Etienne next to him. Julie and I were between Mama and Etienne.
‘I have just been thanking Citoyen Joseph Buonaparte,’ said Mama, ‘for his kindness last night in seeing you home, Eugenie.’
At that moment Marie came in with liqueur and Julie’s cake. While Mama filled the glasses and cut the cake, Etienne tried to make conversation with the General. ‘Is it indiscreet, Citoyen Général,’ he asked, ‘if I inquire whether you are in our city on official business?’
Joseph answered at once for the General: ‘Not at all. The army of the French Republic is a people’s army, and is maintained by the citizens’ taxes. Every citizen, therefore, has the right to know what is being done by our army. Am I not right, Napoleone?’
The name Napoleone sounded very foreign. We couldn’t help all staring at the General.
‘You may ask anything you like, Citoyen Clary,’ the General replied. ‘I, at all events, make no secret of my plans. In my opinion the Republic is only wasting its resources in this endless defensive warfare on our frontiers. Wars of defence merely cost money and bring in neither glory nor the means of replenishing our exchequer. Thank you, Madame Clary, thank you very much.’ Mama had handed him cake on a plate. He turned back to Etienne: ‘We must go over, of course, to offensive warfare. It will help the French finances, and will show Europe that the people’s army has not been defeated.’
I had been listening, but without understanding. His face was no longer concealed by his hat, and though it’s not a handsome face, it seems to me more wonderful than any face I have ever seen or dreamt of. And suddenly I understood why I had been attracted the day before to Joseph Buonaparte. The brothers resemble each other, but Joseph’s features are not so strong or compelling as Napoleone’s. They only suggest the stronger face for which I was longing. Napoleone’s face carries out that suggestion.
‘Offensive warfare?’ I heard Etienne ask in dismay. We all sat in dead silence, and I realised that the young General must have said something startling. Etienne was looking at him open-mouthed. ‘Yes, but, Citoyen Général, has our army, with its very limited equipment, as we are given to understand—’
The General waved his hand and laughed. ‘Limited? That’s not the word! Our army is a beggar’s army. Our soldiers at the frontiers are in rags; they march into battle in wooden shoes. And our artillery is so wretched that you might suppose that Carnot, our Minister of War, thinks he can defend France with bows and arrows.’
I bent forward and looked hard at him. Afterwards Julie told me my behaviour had been dreadful. But I couldn’t help it. Especially I was waiting to see him laugh again. He has a thin face with tightly drawn skin, very sunburnt, and surrounded by reddish-brown hair. His hair comes down to his shoulders; it is not dressed or even powdered. When he laughs his drawn face suddenly becomes very boyish, and he looks much younger than he really is.
Then I started: someone was saying to me: ‘Your health, Mademoiselle Clary.’ They had all raised their glasses and were sipping the liqueur. Joseph had put his glass close to mine; his eyes were sparkling, and I remembered what we had said the day before: ‘Oh,’ I had told him, ‘call me Eugenie as the others do.’ Mama raised her eyebrows in annoyance, but Etienne was too wrapped up in his conversation with the General to hear.
‘And on what front could an offensive operation be carried out with advantage?’ he was asking.
‘On the Italian front, of course. We shall drive the Austrians out of Italy. A quite inexpensive campaign. Our troops will easily supply themselves in Italy. Such a rich, fertile country!’
‘And the Italians themselves? I thought they were loyal to the Austrians?’
‘We shall set free the Italian people. In all the provinces we conquer we shall proclaim the Rights of Man.’ Though the subject seemed to interest the General, I could see that Etienne’s objections bored him.
‘Your garden is wonderful,’Joseph Buonaparte said to Mama, looking through the glass door.
‘It’s too early yet,’Julie ventured, ‘but when the lilac is out, and the climbing roses round the summer-house—’
She stopped in confusion. I could see she was losing her composure, for lilac and rambler roses do not come out together.
‘Have the plans for an offensive operation on the Italian front taken definite shape?’ Etienne asked. He would not drop the subject; it seemed to fascinate him.
‘Yes. I have almost completed the plans. At present I am inspecting our fortifications here in the south.’
‘So Government circles are determined on an Italian campaign?’
‘Citoyen Robespierre personally entrusted me with this tour of inspection. It seems to me to be indispensable before our Italian offensive begins.’
Etienne clicked his tongue, a sign that he was impressed. He nodded. ‘A great plan,’ he said, ‘a bold plan.’ The General smiled at Etienne, and that smile seemed to captivate my brother, though he is such a hard-headed business man. Etienne said eagerly, stammering like a schoolboy: ‘If only that great plan succeeds, if only it succeeds!’
‘Have no fear, Citoyen Clary, it will succeed,’ the General replied, getting up.
‘And which of the two young ladies would have the kindness to show me the garden?’ asked Joseph.
Julie and I both jumped up. And Julie smiled at Joseph. I don’t know just how it happened, but two minutes later we four found ourselves in the leafless garden, without Mama and without Etienne.
It is only a narrow gravel path that leads to the summer-house, so that we had to go two by two. Julie and Joseph went in front, and Napoleone and I followed. I was racking my brains for anything I could say to him, I was so eager to make a good impression on him. But he seemed too buried in thought to notice our silence. And he walked so slowly that Julie and his brother got farther from us. I began to think he was deliberately dawdling.
All of a sudden he said, ‘When do you think my brother and your sister will be married?’
I thought at first that I must have misheard him. I looked at him in astonishment, and I could feel that I was flushing.
‘Well,’ he repeated, ‘when will they be married? Soon, I hope.’
‘Yes, but,’ I stammered, ‘they have only just met. And after all we have no idea—’
‘They are just made for each other,’ he declared. ‘You know that too.’
‘I?’ I looked wide-eyed at him.
‘Please don’t look at me like that!’ he said.
I was so upset that I could only look down. And I was becoming furious with him.
‘But,’ he persisted, ‘you yourself were thinking last night that it would be a good thing for your sister to marry Joseph. After all, she is at the age at which young ladies generally become betrothed.’
‘I didn’t think anything of the sort, Citizen General!’ I declared. Then I had the feeling that in some way I had compromised Julie. I was no longer angry with Napoleone, only with myself.
He stood still, and turned to face me. He was only half a head taller than I, and he seemed pleased to have found somebody he didn’t have to crane up to.
It was getting dark, and the grey spring twilight was dropping like a screen that shut us off from Julie and Joseph. The General’s face was so close to mine that I could still see his eyes; they were sparkling, and I was surprised to find that men, too, have long eyelashes.
‘You must never have any secrets from me, Mademoiselle Eugenie. I can see deep into the hearts of young ladies. Besides, Joseph told me last night that you had promised to introduce him to your elder sister. You told him, too, that your sister is very pre
tty. That was not true, and – you must have had a good reason for your little fib.’
‘We must go on,’ I said to that, ‘the others will be in the summer-house already.’
‘Shall we not give your sister a chance to get better acquainted with my brother before she becomes betrothed to him?’ he asked softly. His voice sounded very gentle, almost – yes, almost like a caress. His accent seemed foreign much less often than his brother’s.
‘Joseph will very soon be suing for your sister’s hand,’ he told me quite simply. It was so dark now that I could only see his face dimly, but I could tell that he was smiling.
‘How do you know that?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘We talked about it last night,’ he replied, as if that were the most natural thing in the world to do.
‘But last night your brother had never seen my sister,’ I retorted, outraged.
Then he very gently took my arm, and the contact sent a thrill all over me. We went slowly on, and he talked with such tender intimacy that we might have been friends for years.
‘Joseph told me of his meeting with you, and he mentioned that your family are very well-to-do. Your father is no longer alive, but I assume that he must have left considerable dowries for you and your sister. Our people are very poor.’
‘You have sisters too, have you not?’ I remembered that Joseph had mentioned sisters of my age.
‘Yes, three young brothers and three young sisters,’ he said. ‘And Joseph and I have to provide for Mama and all of them. Mama has a small pension from the State, because she was treated as a persecuted patriot after her flight from Corsica. But the pension does not even pay the rent. You have no idea, Mademoiselle Eugenie, how dear everything is in France.’
‘So,’ I said, freeing my arm, ‘your brother only wants to marry my sister for her dowry?’ I tried to speak without heat, but I was hurt, and my voice shook with disgust.
‘Why, how can you say that, Mademoiselle Eugenie! I think your sister is a very charming young lady, so kind, so modest, with such lovely eyes – I am quite sure that Joseph likes her very much. The two will be very happy together.’