Captain Charles’s basement rooms at one hundred Rue Honoré are dark. The porter squinted to make out the printing on my card. “Madame Tascher?”
I nodded, giving him my cloak. I was asked to wait in a small drawing room. (I remember wondering whether I heard barking.) I made myself comfortable, taking in the tasteful simplicity of the furnishings—the paintings on the walls, the bouquets of flowers, a side table covered with books (Montesquieu’s Persian Letters open, face down), a bronze sculpture of a horse—the pleasing clutter of a room much lived in.
“He’s receiving,” the porter informed me, then led me down a dark passage. We stopped before an antique oak door with a brass knob. I heard a dog barking again. The porter rapped three times.
“Come on in, Claude,” I heard a voice call out—Captain Charles.
The porter swung the door open. There, in the centre of a mass of dogs was Captain Charles wearing an artist’s frock coat of coarse linen. In his arms was a beagle with one ear missing. “Madame—”
“Tascher.”
Gently he lowered the beagle onto the floor and stepped over a longhaired mutt, wiping his hands on his frock coat. His braids had been tied back with a scarlet and black striped ribbon. “You’ve discovered my secret life,” he said shyly, glancing down at his flock.
“Where did they all come from?” How many were there? Eight? Ten?
“I claim them from the streets,” he said, removing his coat and ushering me out the door. Underneath he was wearing a scarlet wool cutaway coat with white satin lapels. He closed the door behind him, muffling the yelping.
“And then what do you do with them?” I asked, following him back into the drawing room.
“And then I can’t bear to part with them!” he said, pushing forward an upholstered chair. “You’ve come about the article in La Feuille du Jour?”
“It alarmed me.”
“The horses that the Bodin Company bought were sound, I assure you. But the horses that were shipped were apparently slaughterhouse animals. The problem appears to be with the dealer.”
“Louis and Hugo Bodin are both in Lyons?”
The captain nodded. “I just received a letter from them. There is talk of an inquiry.”
This could be the end of us, I thought—the end of me. “There’s only one person who can help us.”
“Grand Dieu,” Barras exclaimed when he saw me. “I was beginning to think we’d never see you in Paris again. You’re just in time for the celebration.” He did a little dance and then winced, his hand on the small of his back. “At last, that braggart Director Treilhard’s out—his election as director has been disqualified.”
“Ha, ha.” The parrot, chuckling like Barras.
“Oh?” Trying to remember who Director Treilhard was. I’d been living in another world. “Why?”
“He’s four days too young to be eligible.”
“Only four days?”
“Four, four hundred, what does it matter? The law is the law,” intoned Barras in a mock deep voice. “The irony is that it was your brother-in-law Lucien Bonaparte who discovered the discrepancy and demanded justice. He himself is four hundred days short of being eligible to be a deputy, and he started screaming about Treilhard’s four days. All this at one in the morning. It’s a good thing I have a sense of humour.”
“Barras, please, have you read that article about the Bodin Company in the—”
“La Feuille du Jour? Ah yes, the latest little scandal. The Legislative Councils are outraged, calling for an investigation, of course.” He held his hands up, as if under arrest. “And they’re just dying to pin it on me. This place is as explosive as a powder keg.”
Barras’s secretary Botot appeared at the door. “Another deputation to see you, Director.”
“That’s the third group already today.” Barras took me by the elbow, ushering me out.
“Paul, what’s going on?”
He kissed me on both cheeks. “Just another coup d’état, a little milkand-water revolution.” He waved gaily, disappearing from view, his words echoing in the vast chamber—coup d’état, coup d’état, coup d’état.
“So he can’t do anything?” Captain Charles asked, keeping his eyes on the six balls he was juggling.
“I never had a chance to ask him. Things are…tense. The last thing he’ll want to align himself with right now is the Bodin Company. Maybe later.”
“Later will be too late,” the captain said, letting the balls drop.
June 21.
With a sinking heart, I have written to Barras, begging him to defend the interests of the Bodin Company.
June 29.
I was working in the herb garden with Mimi when a hired fiacre pulled through the gates. I squinted to see who it might be. “I think it’s that funny man,” Mimi said, for her eyesight is better than mine.
Captain Charles? I untied my apron.
“And a mess of dogs, sounds like,” she said.
“We’ve been turned out,” the captain explained as his porter picked the dog hairs off his red shooting jacket. The beagle and a spotted dog pressed their damp, black noses out the carriage window, sniffing. From the variety of barks, I suspected he had brought them all.
“Because of the investigation?” Government payments to the Bodin Company had been withheld until the investigation was complete.
He nodded. “I put all the office files in safe keeping, but as for the dogs—I know it is a lot to ask, but…?”
I started to turn him away, thinking of what might be said, fearing the consequences. But then I thought: how can I let down a friend in such desperate need? Were it not for Captain Charles, I wouldn’t even own Malmaison. And who would ever know he was there? I lived in such isolation. “There’s a suite of rooms empty in the farmhouse,” I told him, wondering as I said the words if I were doing the right thing. “My daughter comes only on the weekends. I’ll tell the servants you are my accountant.” In fact, I could use his help.
“It won’t be for long,” he assured me, opening the carriage door and standing back as all the barking, bounding dogs leapt out.
July 7—Paris.
Although the Bodin Company contract is still under review, at least we will not be charged. “That’s the best I can do,” Barras told me. He seemed distant, harassed. I dared not ask him for yet another loan, as I’d intended.
July 10.
What a night. Now all is topsy-turvy. Where do I begin? I suppose it was inevitable that the captain and I would become…well, perhaps I am being misleading.
It began with inviting the captain to join me in sampling the first bottle of our Malmaison wine. It was, after all, an occasion. We’d learned that the investigation had been dropped. The Bodin Company was going to survive. And besides, the pheasants that a neighbour had been kind enough to give me had been splendidly prepared by my cook and required a “full-bodied” (the captain’s words) red.
The first bottle revealed that the wine was, indeed, ready. The captain and I settled into the game room, where, after I noisily beat him at backgammon* (three times!), we propped our stockinged feet up on the big leather hassock and talked: of his family and their need; of his ambition (to own a stud farm, raise horses). I asked him once again why he had never married.
“The woman I love is spoken for,” he confessed.
“You won’t tell me who she is?” I asked, wondering, I confess, if he was telling the truth. Wondering if the rumours about the captain were true. I took my wineglass in my hand, holding it by the stem. I looked at the captain, held his eye as I raised my glass, emptied it. It is an old-fashioned ritual, this “taking a glass”; I doubted whether he was even familiar with it, young as he is. But gamely he followed suit, holding my eye, downing his glass. I leaned over and filled his glass again. I was conscious of the revealing cut of my gown.
“I’ll give you a hint,” he said, standing abruptly and propping his hands on the arms of my chair. I could smell the sweet scent of pis
tachio on his breath. Before I could protest, his lips were upon mine, his tongue soft, seeking. I pulled away. “Why did you do that!” (Shocked, I confess, by his ardour. I’d always considered the captain to be “safe.”)
Captain Charles fell back on his haunches. “Why is not the question a lady usually asks when she is kissed,” he said, rising to his feet, pulling at his coat to try to disguise the rather obvious fact that he was in the manly state. I looked away, a flush heating my cheeks. Perhaps I should take a lover, I thought, thinking of my husband in the arms of another. But was that lover funny little Captain Charles?
The night was foggy. I felt my way cautiously, holding onto Captain Charles’s arm for support. We were both of us giggling like schoolchildren, stumbling in the dark, starting at the slightest sound. A snort and low rumble made me jump. “It’s just my manservant snoring,” he whispered, leading me up the narrow path to the old farmhouse. Inside, two dogs began to bark. “Quiet,” Captain Charles hissed through the open window.
I put my hand on his shoulder to keep from swaying. Then he hiccupped and I fell against the wall, trying not to laugh. I remember thinking, I’m in a state, I’m going to regret this.
Captain Charles opened the creaky door to his bedchamber. The room smelled of dog. He lit a lantern and stumbled about the room making it tidy, throwing a woven cloth over the bed. “There.” Then he kissed me, pulling me against him. “Please don’t change your mind,” he whispered, sensing that I might. He pulled at my bodice strings, his fingertips on my breast, his lips, his tongue. I moaned, my hands in his hair. We fell onto the bed. Kiss him, I thought—before you think better of it.
He stood and untied his pantaloons, pulling down his breeches, his drawers. Demurely, I looked away. He stepped towards the bed, and I believe he must have lost his balance, for he began to hop about the room, his ankles tangled in his breeches, the light of the single lantern gleaming off his exposed buttocks, his rather large and bouncing manhood.
And then, I could not help it—I began to laugh. And then the dogs began to bark. Captain Charles pulled up his breeches and ran downstairs to silence them. When he returned I was sitting cross-legged on his bed, drying my cheeks, laughing still but contained, my sides aching. He sat down beside me, confused and shy. “My valet’s still snoring,” he said.
“Oh, Captain Charles!” I put one hand on his shoulder. I felt him begin to laugh himself. And then we were both of us convulsed.
He kissed me tenderly and helped me to my feet. The moment of danger had passed.
July 11.
The captain came to my door this morning with a bouquet of wild flowers. I looked at him for what seemed like a very long time, but was probably little more than a heartbeat or two. I kissed his smooth cheek. “I’m sorry, Captain Charles, I don’t know what to say,” I said, accepting his kind offering.
July 13.
I was awakened by a courier cantering up the drive. Bonaparte had been injured in Egypt, I was solemnly informed, in an attack at Saint-Jean d’Acre.
“A general’s wife becomes accustomed to false reports,” I reassured the servants, but ordered the carriage harnessed none the less.
“I’m coming with you,” Mimi said, running back into the house for her hat.
I stood waiting as my coachman hitched the second horse, a grey gelding. It laid back its ears at the bay, swishing its tail.
“Josephine?” It was Captain Charles, standing by the gate. “I heard the bad news.”
A stinging sensation came into my eyes. “No doubt it’s just another false report. I’m going into Paris to Luxembourg Palace. Director Barras will know.” I jumped at the sudden sound of muskets going off. Bastille Day tomorrow—of course.
Mimi came running, blue hat ribbons aflutter. The carriage leaned as my coachman climbed onto the driver’s seat.
Director Barras wasn’t receiving, his aide informed me. “His doctor has forbidden any visitors.”
“But surely he’ll receive me.”
“No exceptions.” He is a young man, new at the job, fearful of misstep.
“Perhaps you could help me then,” I said, the tremor in my voice betraying me.
“It’s true. They’ve been injured,” I told Mimi. I felt numb. The enormity of the news was just sinking in. “Both Bonaparte and Eugène.”
“Badly?”
“I fear so!” With a shaky breath, I told her what I’d learned. During an attack on Saint-Jean d’Acre, a shell had exploded in the midst of headquarters. A fragment struck Eugène in the head. Bonaparte, himself wounded, risked his life to come to Eugène’s aid. A sergeant had thrown himself upon Bonaparte to protect him, but was hit and died.
Mimi put her arm around me. I began to cry.
The horses bent their heads against the wind, heading back to Malmaison. My heart reached for Egypt, for a hot desert land. Fear inflamed my imagination.
Captain Charles was in the game room, sitting by the fire reading a volume of Voltaire’s tragedies, his slippers on the leather hassock. He put down the book when he saw me. I took off my hat, my gloves. In a few hours Hortense would arrive. She would be buoyant, excited about the Bastille Day ceremonies tomorrow in our little village of Rueil. And then I would have to tell her—that her beloved brother had a head injury, had not woken. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” I told Captain Charles.
“I know, your daughter will be arriving soon. I was just going back to the farmhouse in any case.” His tone tender. “The news is not…?”
“No. I mean, it’s not that.”
“What happened?” he asked. “Was General Bonaparte injured?”
Captain Charles spoke my husband’s name with reverence. “Yes. They don’t know how badly. And Eugène, as well. He was struck unconscious from a head injury, so there’s a chance that he might be…” I thought of the village idiot.
I felt Captain Charles’s hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
I pulled away, out of his reach.
“You don’t want me to comfort you?”
I shook my head. He looked like a boy to me, not so very much older than my son. My relationship with the captain was not sinful, but it was not innocent, either. The gods were punishing me, surely! “Captain Charles, I’m…I must ask you to leave Malmaison.”
“Now?” He looked confused.
“Yes please.” How could I pray for my husband and son, with the captain by my side? “I’m sorry!” I fled the room before I could do more harm.
July 14, Bastille Day.
Fire rockets, trumpets, a steady drumbeat. I fastened the latch on the leaded window, drew the brocade curtains, muffling the sounds of festivity. I am keeping Hortense with me for a few days.
July 15, early evening.
Twice today Hortense and I walked the dusty road to Rueil to light candles in the village church. We have each of us set up a prie-dieu in our bedrooms. Mimi walks in the moonlight, chanting to the voodoo mystères. We have all returned to the gods of our youth.
July 22—Malmaison.
Good news—Bonaparte has recovered. But no news yet about Eugène—I’m sick with apprehension.
Close to midnight—Paris.
“Director Barras is expecting me,” I lied to the aide.
The young man looked at the clock on the mantel. “I guess,” he said, still unsure.
I followed him up the grand spiral staircase and through a series of elegant chambers to the last, the smallest and most intimate—the bedchamber of Director Barras. There I found Barras in an alarming condition—pale, too weak to stand. “I’m sorry for keeping you out the other day,” he said, waving his hand through the air, then letting it fall onto the bed sheet. “If my enemies were to find out how weak I am—” He made a pistol of his index finger and thumb and aimed it at his temple. “I’m not even letting Talleyrand in. You know he’s resigned? Everything’s falling to pieces. But at least I was able to get Fouché named Minister of Police. He should be back in Paris in
a few weeks. The sooner the better. You wouldn’t believe the plots that are brewing. I should be flattered, I guess. Everyone wants to depose me. Even your charming brothers-in-law are circulating the story that I sent Bonaparte into the desert just to get rid of him, that the entire fiasco is my fault.”
He was babbling incoherently. I put the palm of my hand on his forehead. “You have a fever. Have you seen your doctor? Have you been bled?”
“Yes, yes, but not bled—not today, in any case. I haven’t any blood left.” He smiled weakly, his eyes fever bright. “That was good news about Bonaparte. You must be relieved.”
“Yes! But I’ve heard nothing yet about Eugène—”
“My aide didn’t tell you? Merde. It’s so frustrating. I told him to let you know. These young people are incompetent.”
“Tell me what, Paul?” My heart was pounding.
“That your son has fully recovered!”
I put my hand to my chest, put down my head and gave thanks to my son’s guardian angels.
July 23—still in Paris.
Thérèse told me Captain Charles is staying in old Madame Montaniser’s suite in the Palace Égalité. I’ve sent him a message, asking him to meet me in Monceau Park tomorrow at eleven. I dare not invite him here, not with Pauline Bonaparte watching every move I make.
July 24.
The captain was at Monceau Park when I arrived, sitting on the shady bench by the Roman columns. He smiled at my blonde ringlets, for I was wearing one of Thérèse’s wigs.