Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe

  5. And last, but certainly not least, regarding that spirited dancer who was run out of Milan for her so-called convictions (for coquetting with French soldiers is more to the point), I’ve succeeded in finding a placement for her with the Opéra-Comique. (She has offered to “repay” me. If only all acts of mercy were so rewarding.)

  But my question to you, my friend, is this—how do all these strange and rather pathetic characters find their way to you? Do take care, chérie. Your last letter rather alarmed me.

  Père Barras

  July 17, Paris

  Honoured sister:

  I am aware that forty thousand per annum translates into three thousand three hundred and thirty-three francs a month. One must, however, take the cost of administration into account.

  I am returning to Dr. Martinet the bills submitted for your treatment since your fall. I have informed him that all expenses incurred in the course of a cure of infertility, however unexpected and unusual, are your responsibility. The Bonaparte Family Trust cannot be held accountable.

  Familial regards, Joseph Bonaparte

  July 18, La Chaumière

  Darling,

  You would have loved to see the parade here yesterday: eighty wagons loaded with the finest art of Italy were carted with great éclat to the Louvre. Over each enormous case there was a banner proclaiming the contents—Raphael, Titian, Domenichino, Guerchino. It was enough to make even the most uncultured among us swoon. But the triumph, of course, were the four horses of Saint Mark from Venice.

  Naturally, the Directors neglected to give your husband the credit for bringing all this wonderful loot to Paris. Oh, forgive me, I forget myself—for “liberating works of genius.” In Paris, at least, the statue of Apollo may be viewed without his silly fig leaf. If that isn’t liberation, what is?

  Your loving friend, Thérèse

  August 4, Luxembourg Palace

  Chère amie,

  Victories in Egypt! One at El-Ramanyeh, another at Chebreis and then, the coup de grâce, a decisive victory over the Mamelouks near Cairo. “The Battle of the Pyramids” we have named it.

  I know as heartening as this news is that you will be disappointed over the lack of letters from that land. Unfortunately, the English are high-jacking whatever ships Bonaparte sends in our direction. It has a certain charm, this relationship. We capture their ships, read their mail; they capture our ships, read ours. If only their letters were more interesting.

  Regarding more mundane matters, you will be amused to know that General Brune came all the way back to Paris from Milan just to complain about the chicanery of certain of our government officials there, including the “shameless plundering” of your charming sister-in-law Pauline Bonaparte and her accomplice in greed, her husband General Victor Leclerc.

  However, before General Brune returned to Milan (stomped back, I should say), I managed to have “a word” with him about the Bodin Company contract. The merest hint of a payback put him in an agreeable disposition. Ah, but these virtuous Republicans are the easiest to bribe.

  Père Barras

  Note—Forgive me, my dear, but I simply cannot and will not promote Citoyen Lahorie. As a director of this Republic, I must, from time to time, act responsibly. I understand that he was a friend of your first husband and that therefore you wish to help the man, but frankly, he’s an idiot.*

  August 9.

  I walked for ten minutes. I am determined to join Bonaparte in Egypt.

  * All of these were popular abortive measures. Uterus powder is likely ergot, a black, hard fungus that grows on stalks of rye, an abortive widely used for “bringing on the flowers.” Powder made from the leaves of a savin bush, which was often to be seen in the garden of a village midwife, was commonly used. Tea made from rue was considered just as powerful and more reliable than savin, however.

  * The Trust would be made up almost in its entirety of the estimated eight million francs Bonaparte is thought to have brought back from Italy.

  * It wasn’t unusual for a young married woman to go to a boarding school when her husband was away.

  * On June 20, Josephine and three acquaintances were on her balcony when it collapsed. Josephine’s injuries were critical. She was immediately wrapped in the skin of a newly slaughtered lamb. For a time it was not known whether she would live, and Hortense was sent for. Josephine’s treatment, which was published in a medical journal, consisted of a punishing regime of enemas and douches.

  Dr. Martinet’s initial report stated: “Citoyenne Bonaparte was the most seriously injured of the group. She was given a drink of infusion of arnica to stop the bleeding and an enema, which she evacuated, urinating as well. She was immediately put in a warm bath, after which leeches were applied to the most severely bruised parts of her body, as well as to her haemorrhoids, which were swollen. Warm topical remedies and emollients were put on her bruises (apples cooked in water had a good effect). This was followed by compresses soaked in camphor.”

  * The command of the Army of Italy passed from Napoleon to General Berthier, Napoleon’s former chief of staff, and then to General Brune. Berthier had favoured the Bodin Company (it is possible he was in on the financial rewards), but General Brune did not and was threatening to cancel the contract.

  * Lahorie blamed Josephine for Barras’s rejection. Consequently, in 1812, he joined a conspiracy to overthrow Napoleon and was shot for treason.

  In which victories are followed by defeat

  September 16, 1798—Paris.

  I arrived home to devastating news. Buried in a massive stack of calling cards, parcels, letters of congratulation and the usual demands from bill collectors, there was a note from Barras: Come see me as soon as you arrive. Urgent.

  I put my hat back on. “What is it, Maman?” Hortense has become sensitive to my moods.

  “Director Barras wishes to see me.” No doubt it had to do with news from the East regarding Bonaparte. Or perhaps Eugène! I didn’t like the word urgent.

  It took some time to get to the palace—the streets were congested, and everywhere there were signs of festivity, preparations for the Republican Year VII celebrations. On Rue Honoré, an enormous banner depicting Bonaparte with palm trees and pyramids in the background had been hung from the bell tower of a church.

  “Madame Bonaparte!” Barras’s elderly valet bounded to his feet. “Director Barras has been most anxious for your arrival.” Bruno pulled the big oak doors open.

  Barras was playing the violin when I entered. He stopped abruptly when he saw me, his gold-rimmed lorgnon falling, swinging on a pink cord, his eyes tender and sad. “I’m so relieved to see you. You’ve survived the journey? You look thin.” His voice sweet, bell-like.

  I embraced him, inhaling his familiar scent, spirit of ambergris. How was I? Fine, fine, I lied. In fact, the journey had been painful, but I didn’t want to list my aches and pains. “I received your note.” Gingerly, I took a seat, for my hip was inflamed after two days in a jolting carriage. “I confess I’m anxious.”

  “Of course! Of course!” Barras took the chair near mine, shifted uncomfortably. “We’ve had … news,” he said, clearing his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  “Paul, please tell me—are they all right?” Nothing could be worse than what I imagined.

  “Bonaparte, you mean?” Crossing his legs at the ankle.

  “Yes—and the boys.” Eugène, Louis.

  “Of course, yes. They’re fine, I assure you, but there has been … How should I put it? There’s been a bit of a setback. But I assure you, yes, Bonaparte and the boys are safe,” he repeated, raising his left hand as if making a vow, “as are most of the men.”

  Most? I tilted my head to one side, my dangling earrings tinkling.

  “But the fleet is … sunk,” he said in a whisper.

  Sunk? I listened in a daze as Barras explained. After Admiral Brueys anchored the fleet at Aboukir, the English swooped down and destroyed all but four of our ships. The commander of the T
imoléon set his ship on fire rather than surrender. He died, standing on the deck. Admiral Brueys was cut in two standing at the helm of L’Orient. The explosion of the gunpowder in the hold could be heard in Alexandria, twenty-five miles away. The battle went on for three days, the bloodiest ever fought at sea. And yet the English did not lose a single ship.

  I put my fist to my lips, overwhelmed by the enormity of the loss. The greatest fleet in history since the Crusades—gone? Over three thousand men killed or wounded. All the supplies—including the gold needed to buy provisions—lost.

  Barras refilled his glass, spilling spirits onto the carpet. “And, of course, the unfortunate thing is that now the troops are …” He cleared his throat again. “Stranded.”

  My heart began to pound. “But surely we’ll rescue them,” I said, twisting my handkerchief.

  “I can’t see how! The English are now in control of the sea. It’s doubtful that we’ll even be able to get a mail boat through.”

  A feeling of panic came over me. I had to get home, before I was overcome.

  “You understand, we’re keeping this confidential,” he went on. “But Paul, an entire fleet, how can you—?”

  “The exhibition opens tomorrow! We’ve planned the most spectacular New Year fête imaginable, to celebrate Bonaparte’s victories. And now this. The people laugh at us as it is. I’m already accused of every vice, of committing every crime, every petty thievery. To hear people talk, I’m a very busy man. Have you heard the latest epigram? ‘If only the Republic could be disem barrassed.’ Charming, don’t you think? And what about that poster of a lance, a lettuce leaf and a rat? It’s everywhere; you’ll see it. I finally figured it out: the seventh year will kill them.* And, you know, I’m starting to think maybe they’re—”

  “Paul, please, tell me. What does this mean?”

  Barras’s glass missed the fireplace and shattered against the wall. Toto jumped up, cowering. “What it means is that the goddamned English have downed the entire French fleet.” He sank back into his chair, his hands over his eyes. “Grand Dieu, I’m going mad.”

  September 17.

  Hortense was hopping up and down with excitement. “There are ribbons and bouquets on all the posts.”

  “And colourful silk banners fluttering in the breeze,” Émilie (Madame Lavalette now) said.

  “That’s wonderful,” I said, trying to put some enthusiasm in my voice.

  Hortense became concerned. “We are going to the exhibition, Maman—aren’t we?”

  It was easier than I thought it would be, accepting congratulations on behalf of my husband’s victories, smiling, bowing, nodding—not letting on. I watched as if from a distance the people dancing, singing, staggering in the glow of their country’s glory, in the illusion of victory. The realization of defeat would come soon enough. Perhaps it is always thus. Perhaps all victories are false, defeat the inevitable reality.

  Or perhaps, more truly, I too did not want to think about what I knew to be true, that the greatest of victories had been followed by the greatest of defeats.

  I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder. Barras, looking ill—from last night’s tippling, no doubt. “How are you managing?” he asked, his soft voice very nearly drowned out by all the commotion. He was wearing the ceremonial robe of a director, an enormous crimson cashmere cape and a velvet toque with a tricolour plume.

  “Not too bad,” I said, keeping an eye on Hortense, Caroline, Emilie and Jérôme, who were over by a lemonade vendor. An enclave of Bonapartes sat in a roped-off cluster directly in front of the stage. “It’s not as hard as I thought it would be.” During the day, that is. During the night it was another matter. “Do they know?” I tilted my head in the direction of the Bonapartes—Joseph and his wife Julie, Lucien (back from Corsica), Pauline and Victor Leclerc (recently arrived from Milan). All of them were curiously sullen in the midst of so much festivity.

  “Certainly not. That hot-headed Lucien would leak it to the Moniteur in a minute, along with accusations that it is the fault of the Directors—my fault, to be specific. Did you know that he’s been made Secretary of the Five Hundred?”

  “But he was only elected a deputy three months ago.”

  “He’s become quite popular on the strength of his rather vocal opposition to the Directors—on the strength of his opposition to me, I should say. And as for that smiling jackal of a man, that mild-mannered—” He raised one bushy eyebrow. “I wouldn’t walk a dark alley with Joseph Bonaparte, let’s put it that way.”

  “But why do they all look so glum?”

  Barras snorted. “They don’t like their seats, they should be up on the stage, the posters should have their faces on them, there should be more posters, the posters aren’t big enough.” He threw up his hands. “In short, it’s not enough. It’s never enough for a Bonaparte, apparently. Your husband excepted, of course.”

  “Of course,” I echoed—not paying attention, I confess. An attractive young woman had stooped to exchange a word with Joseph. There was something familiar about her.

  “Ready, Director Barras?” It was Director Neufchâteau, the newest member of the council of five Directors, and as Minister of the Interior the mastermind behind the exhibition. I wanted an opportunity to thank him personally for responding to my request that funding to the Vosges municipalities be increased. As well, I had a number of other requests to make. But most important, Bonaparte was going to be in need of allies—especially now.

  I gave Director Neufchâteau my hand. “A brilliant display, Director, quite inspiring. I congratulate you.” The woman talking to Joseph stood, turned—Lisette! She headed toward a door, the gems in her headdress glittering in the torchlight. Fouché had warned me she’d been consorting with the Bonapartes. Why had she been talking with Joseph? I wondered with apprehension, recalling her words: You will be sorry!

  The military band began to warm up. I felt a stir in the crowd, craning heads. “Ah, there she is,” Barras said, speaking in the Provençal dialect, “our lovely Amazon.” I looked toward the entry. It was Thérèse, in shimmering silver and mauve, towering above the crowd. She was followed at a distance by her footman and nanny, carrying Thermidor in petticoats. Thérèse caught my eye, made a look of surprise, waved wildly.

  Director Neufchâteau put his gloved hand on Barras’s shoulder. “We’re being summoned, Director,” he said. The two men headed toward the stage.

  “I didn’t even know you were back,” Thérèse exclaimed, folding me in her arms.

  I took her hand, feeling suddenly, unaccountably, choked up. It was so good to see her.

  Thérèse held me at arm’s length. “And how are you?”

  “I’m going to be all right.” I think. “I’m walking, that’s the important thing.”

  “And what do you make of all this?” Thérèse asked before I could tell her about Lisette. “Everyone’s gone crazy over your husband. Maybe it’s true, what he says—maybe you are his Lady of Luck.”

  I turned away. It was impossible to lie to Thérèse. Fortunately, the nanny appeared with Thermidor, her thumb in her mouth, her big eyes transfixed. “This little one is sleepy,” Thérèse said.

  “I’m not little,” Thermidor said, taking her thumb out of her mouth. “I’m—”

  “Three! I know.” I took her in my arms. “My, you are a big girl now.” She smelled of soap. I pressed her silken cheek to mine. “You will make a wonderful grandmother,” Thérèse said. She hadn’t said, a wonderful mother.

  September 19.

  A sleepless night. One year ago Lazare died, yet even still he is often in my thoughts. I am no Lady of Luck. Every man I have ever loved has fallen. I am ill at the thought that harm might come to Bonaparte and to Eugène. I have mourned too many loved ones. I plead with my guardian angels: fly, fly! Go to them. Keep them from harm.

  September 21.

  Ah, my dear Glories …

  “Darling, we’re so relieved to see you. What have you done with your hair?
”

  “I love that gown. Turn, turn, let me see.”

  “Oh, that’s different, I like the way the sash comes up over the shoulders.” ‘All of Paris has been singing your husband’s praise.” “The French Caesar, my cook calls him.”

  “Everyone.”

  “Hail, Caesar!” Fortunée Hamelin was wearing a blue wig. She’d dyed one of Thérèse’s blonde ones. “My, but this champagne is excellent,” she said, shrugging her shoulders to lower her bodice. “Better get your girl to bring up a few more bottles, Josephine. There, you see? I remembered.”

  “Is it true? Citoyenne Marmont told me that you’re going to Egypt with her, that the General is sending La Pomone back from Malta just to fetch you.”

  “That’s so romantic. I’d love to have a ship sent for me.”

  “But are you well enough to travel, darling? I noticed you walking with a bit of a limp.”

  “We read all about your treatment in that medical journal—how ghastly.”

  “It’s a wonder you survived the cure.”

  “All those enemas—mon Dieu.” The bright silk flowers piled high onto the crown of Madame de Crény’s ruffled bonnet made her seem even shorter than she was.

  “That’s one thing I simply can’t abide.”

  “Enemas? Some women actually like them.” Minerva giggled.

  “And some men like giving them.”

  “Parbleu!” Fortunée Hamelin guffawed.

  “It’s true. Madame Mercier constantly complains that her husband wants to physic her too much.” “Why, that scamp.”

  “Not that I want to change the subject, Josephine, but the big house down the road, the one at the corner of Rue du Mont Blanc—is that the one your sister-in-law and her husband bought?”

  “The Leclercs?” I nodded, playing a card. On their return from Milan, Pauline and Victor had purchased (with cash, it was rumoured) the property three houses down. Every time I passed, I saw Pauline’s face at a window. My personal spy, I was coming to think of her.