Maman sank onto a chair. “I just don’t know.”
—
Late the next night, a carriage pulled down our laneway. Half-asleep, I heard Maman’s voice, curiously excited. It sounded as though she was talking to old Gontier, her man-of-all-work.
I put on my fur-lined slippers, grabbed a shawl and hurried down the stairs, the flame from my night candle threatening to flicker out.
“Maman?” She’d been to dine at the Petit Luxembourg with Director Gohier and his wife, hoping to persuade him to support rescuing the General and his men.
“Dear heart,” she called. “They’re back.”
“General Bonaparte is back!” old Gontier yelled out from behind her, his arms full of wood for the fire.
“And your brother is with him,” Maman said, stepping aside for him.
“Who?” I put my candle down on a side table. Back where?
“Bonaparte and Eugène.”
I thought, This must be a dream. A good one, for once. “Eugène?”
“Yes! He was the one who sent word to the Directors, from a port in the south.”
I followed her into the salon, where a fire was now roaring. I moved the wooden rocker close.
“I’m going to meet them on the road,” Maman said, standing, rubbing her arms. “Agathe will help me pack linens, provisions, blankets.” She started to pace. “Director Gohier’s loaning me his sleeping coach.” She clasped her hands to her heart. “Dear heart! Our prayers have been answered. They managed to get past the English ships.”
It wasn’t a dream. “Are you sure?” I wondered if Christophe was with them. “And you’re going?” That made no sense. People were robbed by highway bandits—murdered sometimes. “It’s dangerous, Maman.” Even the drive to and from school was risky. “Why not wait for them here? They’ll arrive in time.”
“Darling.” She sat down across from me, methodically taking off her gloves, pulling at each finger in turn. She smoothed them out on her lap, laying one neatly over the other. She looked at me. I’d never before realized how strangely big her eyes were, especially by candlelight. “They’ll turn him against me. They’ve already tried.”
They: the Bonaparte clan, she meant. I could feel the heat in my cheeks. They would tell the General about Hippolyte Charles, tell him that Maman had been unfaithful to him, that she was wanton.
“I must see him, before they poison his mind.”
“Then I’ll have to go with you,” I said.
“But you’re sick, dear heart. You have a miserable cold. I’ll not be stopping, not even to eat. I’ll be sleeping in the coach to save time.”
“I’m fine,” I said with a sneeze.
“You’ll wear your fur bonnet?”
“Anything,” I grunted. Even my ugly fur bonnet.
* * *
—
Maman and I left at dawn, rolling over rough roads, the coach lanterns clanking against the window frames. The coachman stopped at post houses only long enough to change the lathered horses for fresh ones.
As the coach rocked side to side, we ate hard-cooked eggs from a basket Agathe had prepared, finishing with comfits and bonbons—and brandy to keep us warm. As night fell, Maman raised a panel in the back, revealing a lumpy feather bed. Covered by musty-smelling furs, we stretched out and tried to sleep, in spite of the ceaseless jolts.
We read the newspapers at every stop. The General had planned to disembark at Toulon, we learned, but the English had driven them back. Another journal claimed that his flotilla of two frigates and a transport vessel had been sailing for forty-seven days before landing at Fréjus, a port not far from Toulon.
Forty-seven days! I skimmed the articles, wondering if Christophe was with them.
One lengthy account in the Moniteur was rapturous. I read it out loud to Maman:
“General Bonaparte arrived at Fréjus accompanied by Generals Berthier, Lannes, Marmont, Murat and Andreossy, and citizens Monge and Berthollet.”
“No mention of Eugène?” Maman asked.
Nor of Christophe. Perhaps aides didn’t count.
“Not yet,” I said, and continued reading. “He was received by an immense crowd of people crying ‘Long live the Republic.’ He left the army of Egypt in the most satisfactory position.”
“Excellent,” Maman said.
“Tumultuous and repeated applause has been heard from all sides,” I went on. “Everyone was drunk.”
“Drunk?” Maman frowned.
“That’s what it says,” I said with a shrug, and we laughed.
* * *
—
On the second day, we had to take a break at a post house in Auxerre while one of the coach wheels got fixed. We took a room to refresh ourselves, covering the bed with our shawls before stretching out, for fear of fleas and lice. My cold was better, but it didn’t help—at all—that my courses had started. In the tavern below, I could hear men toasting, To our greatest general! Returned to save France!
And then off we went again, careening south. In every little village, it seemed, people had erected triumphal arches bedecked with wilted flowers and grasses. The farther south we went, the more well-wishers we encountered at each stop. At one, a man yelled to us, “Is it true? Is the Savior coming?”
It’s my brother I’m rushing to meet, I wanted to cry out. Not the General.
* * *
—
Nasty: Snail cream for breakfast, with chalky, musty, bitter bread.
* * *
—
Nasty: Coming away from a soiled necessary with a wet bottom.
* * *
—
As soon as Maman and I walked into the tavern at the Chalon-sur-Saône posting station, a traveler accosted Maman.
“Citoyenne Bonaparte.” He bowed deeply.
She nodded politely and moved past him.
The man turned to Jacques, our coachman, speaking earnestly in an undertone.
“He has news of General Bonaparte, Citoyenne,” Jacques informed us, shifting from foot to foot. He was a wiry man with buck teeth.
“If he has news, bring him here,” Maman said.
I helped her to a wooden bench. Her hip was inflamed again from the constant jolting of the coach.
The young man approached, cloth hat in hand, bobbing his head reverentially with each step. He was shaven, not much older than me—and handsome enough that I regretted my ugly fur hat.
“You have news of the General, Citoyen?” Maman asked.
“I saw him two days ago,” he said, addressing Jacques, too shy to look at Maman directly.
“You saw him?” Maman’s voice was gentle.
“I did. In the theater in Lyons.”
“Two days ago?” I interjected. Lyons wasn’t far—a day’s journey at the most, we’d been told. “Then they should be this way soon, Maman.”
“No, not here,” he said.
Maman sat forward. “Please explain what you mean, Citoyen. Is the General in Lyons?”
“No. He and his party left at sunrise yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” Maman glanced at me with a puzzled frown. “Then they must have passed us.”
“They took another route, Citoyenne,” he said, flushing bright, “the Bourbonnais road through Nevers.”
“But the road through Nevers is dangerous,” Maman objected. “It’s barely passable.”
“Aye,” the man said, and our coachman concurred.
“So we’ve missed them?” I asked, incredulous myself. We’d been racing pell-mell. Had it all been for naught?
The young man shrugged, hands palms up, as if it was his fault and he was sorry. “General Bonaparte was being stopped at every village for celebrations and speeches and the like. The other way, through Nevers, there aren’t many villages of account, and f
ew—”
“We have to turn back,” Maman told Jacques, her voice listless.
Back to Paris. We’d be too late, then. The clan would get there first.
V
HAPPY TIMES
27 Vendémiaire – 2 Brumaire, An 8
(19 October – 24 October, 1799)
THE BOUQUET CARD: HAPPY TIMES
LOCKED OUT
Coming into Paris, Maman tried to nudge me awake. I groaned, snuggling into the musty furs. I hadn’t slept very much at all, kept awake by Maman’s tossing. We’d been traveling recklessly for what seemed like forever.
“Dear heart, sit up. We’re home,” she persisted.
Home? Our coach had come to a stop. I pulled back the leather window covering. I could make out sleeping forms at our hedge. Beggars? A man sat up and called out, slurring, “Vive la République.” Quickly, I closed the curtain, alarmed. What were these people doing here?
“What time is it?”
“It’s after midnight,” Maman said, arranging her tangled hair. Or trying to.
I heard Jacques pounding on our porter’s door. Some of the sleeping forms had risen. Draped in blankets, they looked like ghouls. Jacques warned them to step back.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” Maman said. She let down a window. “Jacques?”
Holding a torch, the coachman approached. “Citoyenne Bonaparte, the porter is under orders not to allow anyone in.” His breath made mist in the freezing air.
“Yes, but anyone but us,” Maman said, pulling on her gloves.
“Everyone, Citoyenne—including you and your daughter.” His face was pale in the frosty light.
“Is the General not here?” Maman asked.
And Eugène! I thought. (And possibly Christophe?) I slipped off my ugly fur hat and found my felt one, pushing my hair into the crown as best I could.
“These are the General’s orders,” Jacques told Maman. “The porter says—” He stopped, swallowing. “He says your belongings are in trunks in the guardhouse.”
“Your things?” I asked Maman, fastening the top button of my cape. I was still groggy.
“I don’t understand,” Maman told Jacques.
“The General, he—” Jacques looked away. “He’s moved you out.”
Maman shoved open the coach door.
“We’re walking? From here?” I clambered down after her.
“Keep back!” Jacques made a threatening gesture at one of the shadowy forms. There were three of them standing now—standing, and watching.
“Open the gate, Didier,” Maman commanded her porter.
“It’s against orders,” he mumbled.
“I’m giving you an order now.”
Didier crossed his arms, unmovable.
“I can climb that gate,” I told him. He’d seen me do it, too.
Maman cast me a warning glance. “Open the gate, Citoyen. No one will punish you if you do.”
After a long moment, he opened the gate and stepped aside.
“I’ll accompany you,” Jacques said, unhooking one of the lanterns from the coach.
“We’ll be fine,” I said, taking the lantern from him.
—
The lane was icy, so we made our way slowly, Maman leaning on my arm.
“How are you doing?” I asked, squeezing her hand.
“I’m nervous,” she admitted. “And furious,” she added, which made me smile.
Two windows were faintly illuminated. I could smell the smoke of a wood fire. I was near giddy with joy: Eugène! Safe back home.
In the dark verandah, I yanked the bell rope, my heart pounding. “I hear someone coming.” I peeked through the tiny window in the door. “It’s Mimi. Oh! I see Eugène!” A giggle fit came over me. “He’s dark, Maman. He looks like an Arab.” I was happy and relieved and uneasy all at once.
“There you are,” Mimi said, opening the door wide for us, and then closing it quickly behind us to keep out the cold. “Finally.”
I peered behind her. I couldn’t see Eugène. Had I imagined it?
She pulled out an enormous handkerchief and blew her nose. She was still sick with my miserable cold. “They made me trunk up your things,” she told Maman.
“Who made you do it?” I demanded, anger rising. I put the lantern down on the side table. Swords, hats and boots were heaped in a pile in one shady corner. Three big trunks were stacked to one side. Everything smelled of the sea.
“The General’s mother,” Mimi said, picking up a man’s boot and putting it with its mate against the wall. “Signora something.”
“Letizia,” Maman said, slipping off her hat and cloak. “Signora Letizia.”
“What an offensive woman,” Mimi said, raising her eyes to Heaven.
I heard the coach and horses pulling up outside. Maman’s porter must have come to his senses and let them through.
“At first I refused,” Mimi paused to cough, “but she started throwing your things into a trunk, not caring if anything got torn or broken, so I took over. I sneezed right onto her face. I hope she gets my cold.”
“My cold,” I said, stepping back to make way for Jacques, hefting one of our trunks.
“Bring it in here,” Mimi said, leading the way into the parlor. “It’s your mother and sister!” I heard her say.
EUGÈNE, AT LAST
Standing in front of the fireplace was a thin young man, wrapped in a gray wool blanket. He grinned, his teeth flashing white against his sun-bronzed skin.
I covered my cheeks with my hands in wonder. Lieutenant Beauharnais, wearing the tattered armband of an aide-de-camp. My big brother, truly grown. He looked whole, in one piece. Grâce à Dieu, he looked himself. He even had that silly tuft of hair standing up.
He threw open his arms. “Chouchoute,” he said tenderly, calling me by my baby name.
“We thought you had died,” I said, embracing him, my voice quavering. He smelled of tobacco.
“Baby,” I heard Maman whisper behind me.
He pulled us all together, Maman and I both weeping. I thought my heart would burst. I had feared I would never see him again, or that he would return terribly altered. “How are you?”
“Yes, how are you?” Maman exclaimed.
We laughed at the fervor of our interrogation.
“We were told you were wounded,” I said. Badly.
He pulled back his hair and showed us a raw scar behind his left ear. Maman and I both gasped. “It has healed well,” he said. “The General went to great lengths to find the best surgeon.”
The same General who had turned our mother out of her own house.
“Where is he?” Maman asked.
“Upstairs.” Eugène grimaced. “I think he’s locked himself in.”
“Locked in?” I scoffed.
“Well, rather, locked everyone out,” Eugène said.
“Locked me out,” Maman said, taking up a candle and heading for the stairs.
“Maman, you can’t just . . .” Eugène protested, almost stuttering in his alarm. “You know, he thinks—”
“I know,” she said over her shoulder, and disappeared up the stairs.
* * *
—
Eugène and I looked at each other. There was so much to say.
“I must look a fright,” I said, kicking my travel boots free and taking off my gloves, my cloak and hat. “We’ve been in a coach for five days. We took the route to Lyons by way of Dijon.” It was all a blur now.
“Ah, so we missed you. We took the wretched Bourbon route back.”
“Isn’t it unsafe?”
“We got robbed. But at least we didn’t overturn.”
“Maman was disconcerted to have missed you.” There were so many things I wanted
to know. “How did it go? With the family?” With the Clan.
Eugène blew air out in exasperation, stooping to pick up the blanket. “Only Signora Letizia and Caroline were here when we arrived.”
Caroline? I hated to think of the stories she would tell at school. Hortense’s mother is a whore. My brother kicked her out.
“But then they all descended, like a pack of wild dogs: Joseph, Louis, Pauline and Elisa, and the other brother . . . Lucien? Even Jérôme was allowed out of school for the occasion.”
“That can’t have been pleasant,” I said.
“Facing an enemy army might have been easier. Speaking of dogs, where’s Pugdog? Mimi said he’s gone to another home, that he’s being looked after by someone else.”
I sighed. Anything I said would only raise questions, questions I didn’t feel comfortable answering. “It’s hard to explain,” I said instead. “Did you know Maman’s porter wasn’t going to let her through the gate?”
He threw up his hands. “There was nothing I could do.” He looked chagrined. “Would you like this?” he asked, offering his blanket.
“No, merci. It’s hot in here.” The fire was blazing.
“But never hot enough,” he said, throwing more wood on the fire. “We got used to the desert heat.” He sat down, huddled in the blanket, visibly shivering.
“Are you sure you’re not sick?”
“I’m fine. If it’s the plague you’re worried about—”
“Were you in contact with plague victims?” I hadn’t considered the Black Plague.
“A number of our men were stricken.”
“How awful!” With the plague, one day you were fine, and only days later you were dead, your body covered in painful sores, your swollen tongue black. In ages past, one person in three had died of it. There hadn’t been a plague outbreak in France for some time—the quarantine laws were strict. All boats coming from the east had to be held offshore for thirty days.