Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe (19 page)

“Comte de Cobenzl? Show him in, please!” One did not keep a man of such importance waiting.

As the Comte de Cobenzl entered, my impulse was to bow, but I refrained. As I am the wife of General Bonaparte, the victor, the Comte
Louis de Cobenzl should, in theory, bow to me. We solved the impasse by bowing at precisely the same moment, and with an equal degree of respect.

“I will not be long, Madame Bonaparte,” he said, refusing my offer of a chair. “I requested a private audience with you because I am gravely concerned about the future of the negotiations. General Bonaparte has been treating us …
rudely,
to be frank. At the least request from us, his temper gives way to violence. No doubt you are aware that he destroyed my prized china tea set.”

The day before, in a fit of temper, Bonaparte had thrown Cobenzl’s tea set to the ground—the tea set the Comte was so proud of, the one that had been given to him personally by Catherine the Great—exclaiming, as he did so, “I’ll break your monarchy like this china!”

“Comte de Cobenzl, please believe me,” I said, “I was dismayed when I—”

The Comte put up his hand. “There is much more at stake than a tea service, Madame. If the General continues in this fashion, I’m afraid Austria will have to withdraw from the negotiations.”

“Comte de Cobenzl—” Words escaped me. If the Austrian negotiators withdrew, there would be war again.

“My question to you is this: Would you speak to the General?”

Speak to Bonaparte? Was such a thing possible?

“We await the result.” The Comte de Cobenzl bowed, I bowed lower, he bowed lower still.

October 16.

“You are not to interfere!” Bonaparte showered spittle in his fury. “I am not interfering!”

Bonaparte had returned from Udine early, fuming; the negotiations had been broken off. War would be resumed in twenty-four hours, he’d threatened. “How can you say that? Yesterday you met with the Comte de Cobenzl privately. You call that not interfering?”

“Have you been spying on me, Bonaparte?”

“This palace is riddled with spies. We are all of us spied upon. Even the spies are spied upon.”

I turned to face my husband. “The Comte de Cobenzl came to me of his own accord. He was seeking … advice.” Was a direct approach wise? So much was at stake. “He feels you have been rude, Bonaparte, that you do not wish to make the peace.”

Bonaparte laughed. “He’s fortunate to be alive and he complains about niceties. How … how
aristocratic.
Cobenzl acts as if he were at a salon, an afternoon tea. And then he demands Mantua.
Mantua!
Mantua is the key. If I were to let the Austrians have Mantua back, they would control Italy again in a very short time. And he wants me to be
civil in
the face of such a demand?”

“Bonaparte …” I took his hands in mine. It always surprises me how soft his skin is, how fine his bones. I looked into his eyes. How did one persuade such a man? “There is something I must say.”

“I do not hinder you.”

“If you treated Cobenzl civilly, perhaps he would be more likely to accede to your wishes.”

He looked incredulous. “You are suggesting that I be
nice?”
“Bonaparte, really, you are so charming when you smile. Who could refuse you?”

October 17.

Bonaparte’s carriage pulled into the courtyard quite late, almost midnight. I saw him jump down from the carriage, followed by Eugène and Louis. I opened the window. “Peace is signed,”
^*
Eugène called out, holding a flambeau aloft. “Pack for Paris!”

^*
Veni, vidi, fugi—
Latin for “I came, I
saw, I fled”—was attributed to Napoleon in a Royalist journal in Paris. It plays on the famous line by Caesar,
Veni, vidi, vici,
meaning, “I came, I saw, I conquered.”

^*
Josephine’s husband Alexandre had at least three known illegitimate children, one of whom was Marie-Adélaïde d’Antigny. Josephine and Désirée jointly contributed to her support.

^*
Headquarters had been moved to Passariano north-east of Venice in order to facilitate the peace talks.

^*
Director Barras is reported to have thrown a writing desk into a mirror in his rage at discovering that Director Carnot had managed to escape so narrowly that his bed was still warm.

^**
General Pichegru was a Royalist agent.

^*
Historically, the Treaty of Campo-Formio is regarded as both spectacular and shameful. Spectacular because, among other things, the French Republic gained Belgium and the Rhineland (including Mayence), getting back its “natural frontier,” and shameful because of the sacrifice of the fledgling Republic of Venice to the Austrians.

III
Profiteer

The scourge and leprosy of the services! Impudent thievery!
—Napoleon, on military suppliers

In which problems await me at home

December 16, 1797—France!

“I can understand what people are saying!” Lisette threw her arms in the air and twirled.

I knew her joy. The innkeeper in her crisp white bonnet had a familiar face. Did I not know her? Even the postillion seemed to have mounted his horse in a way that seemed mysteriously
right.

“Look!” Lisette leapt about the cobblestones. “The sky is French, the mountains are French, the air is French. I bet that horse speaks French.” The old nag turned its head. “See?”

December 17.

“Where did you learn to load a pistol, Madame?” Lisette looked up from mending the train on one of my gowns.

“In Paris, during the Terror. A friend of mine taught me.” A friend now dead, along with so many others. I clicked the chamber shut, slipped on the safety lock. We were travelling with only two mounted escorts; at night, in the inns, I did not feel secure.
^*
I’d sewn my jewels into a little velvet bag, which hung under my gown.

“I love hearing stories about the Revolution, about all the fights and riots. Forgive me, Madame,” she said, seeing my stricken expression.

I handed her the pistol. “Never aim it at a person, even if it’s empty.” “I know!”

I smiled. “Have I ever told you that you remind me of my daughter?” “Many times, Madame.”

“Except, of course, that you’re a young woman now. Have you given any thought to marriage, Lisette?” She was nineteen. It was time. It was past time, frankly.

“I prefer to serve you, Madame,” she said, hiding the pistol at the bottom of her mending basket.

“You may marry and continue to serve me.”

“You would permit it, Madame?”
^*
She picked up her mending.

“Do you think I would expect such a sacrifice from you?”

“Other ladies do.” She shrugged. “And anyway, who would want to marry me?”

“You’re lovely!” But without a dowry, true. “I will be happy to provide you with a dowry.”

“Truly?” she asked with an incredulous look. “On my honour.”

December 19
—
Lyons.

There was a letter awaiting me at our inn in Lyons: embossed in gold, it was from Citoyen Louis Bodin of the Bodin Company, inviting me to call.

December 20, 4:30
P.M.
, a gloomy day.

I was, I confess, taken aback by the Bodin estate. I had not expected it to be so imposing. A wide driveway wound through a beautifully manicured park, opening onto enchanting vistas, before coming to the château.

I was guided by a silent footman in a white cravat through a series of elegant rooms to, at the last, a game room, where Louis Bodin (round as a pumpkin and quite pink) was shooting billiards. A sleepy one-eyed
maid with frizzled hair stood in attendance by the high table. In spite of the hour, all the shaded candles in the bronze chandelier had been lit.

“Welcome, Madame Bonaparte.” Louis Bodin bowed from the waist. He was welcoming, sincere in manner, yet dignified in spite of his complexion and his youth. Old money, I thought, taking in the antlers over the fireplace, the worn, elegant furnishings, the family portraits, the hound curled by the fire with its chin on its hind paws.

We talked, pleasantries at first, and then of our mutual acquaintance, the irrepressible Captain Charles, our Masonic affiliations, spiritualism (carefully avoiding a discussion of religion), the Treaty of Campo-Formio (avoiding a discussion of politics), his brother Hugo, who ran the company’s office in Paris. And then, retiring to a book-lined study where a light collation had been set (Seville oranges, little white boudins, pistachio nuts), we began at last to discuss that which had brought us together: the pursuit of wealth.

Louis Bodin explained that the Bodin Company had profited nicely from the purchase and sale of National Properties, but that due to the increasing scarcity of such “opportunities,” the company wished to expand into the more lucrative area of military supplies—specifically, the supply of mounts to the Army of Italy. “We have everything in place to make a success of such a venture,” he said. “Everything, that is, but the one essential element—approval by the Directors.” He spoke softly, with an enormous orange cat purring on his lap. “As you are no doubt aware, the competition for these contracts is keen. It is perhaps no accident that those who do succeed are the personal acquaintances of one Director in particular.” He smiled, displaying brilliantly white false teeth. “Director Barras, of course, with whom, I am given to understand, you have influence.”

I considered how I should respond to such a statement. “Director Barras is a friend of mine,” I said, a simple statement of fact.

Louis Bodin pushed the cat off his lap and sat forward, his hands on his plump knees. “Madame Bonaparte, would you be … That is, would you consider …?” He scratched the end of his nose.

I knew what he wanted to ask. I waited.

He tugged on his shirt cuffs, revealing enormous emerald links.

“Would you consider acting on behalf of the Bodin Company? That is, discussing the merits of our company with Director Barras?” He sat back, his hands on the arms of his chair. “We’d be willing to discuss a partnership arrangement.”

“That would depend—”

“On the terms, of course. I understand entirely. For that reason, I took the liberty of preparing a draft contract for you to look over.” He retrieved a portfolio from a side table and handed it to me. “Please, at least take it, Madame. You may study it at your leisure.”

I held the contract without looking through it. Once back in Paris, I would go over it with my lawyer and then I would decide. I knew that my answer—be it yes or no—would have significant consequences. If no, I would have to find a way to deal with my mounting debt. If yes, I stood to profit—enormously—but not without risk. “Could I presume, Citoyen Bodin, that my involvement would be kept confidential?”

“We fully understand, I can assure you, the sensitive nature of your position.”

“Then yes,” I said. “I am willing to consider.”

December 28—one stop past Nevers.

This afternoon, as Lisette and I were airing out the linens, we were startled by four rhythmic raps. “Isn’t that Captain Charles’s knock?” Lisette asked. “I knew it was you,” she said, on opening the door.

For there, drenched and mud-splattered, the plume of his hat broken at the stem and hanging sadly down his back like the tail of some unfortunate creature, was Captain Charles. Pugdog sat up on his cushion, his curled tail wiggling.

“Captain Charles!” I was astonished to see him. “What have you done to yourself?”

“I’ve been riding like a madman,” he said, gallantly doffing his ruined hat, “in the hope of catching up with you.”

I motioned to him to take the worn chair by the fireplace. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

“I feared you might have reached Paris by now,” he said, dusting off
his leather breeches before lowering himself into the armchair. He reached down to tug Pugdog’s tail, teasing. “We’ve had a few breakdowns,” I said.

“And ceremonies in every town,” Lisette said. “Madame has been making speeches.”

I opened my fan. I wanted to talk to the captain about my meeting with Citoyen Bodin—but in private. “Lisette, please bring us some midday collations. And a bottle of that good local wine.” After she had left I said, “Captain Charles, we have only a moment. I wish you to know that in Lyons I met with your associate Citoyen Louis Bodin.”

“He told me. I understand that you’ll be meeting with his brother Hugo in Paris. I must tell you, Madame, we are—”

I put up my hand. “I only told him I would consider.” In fact, I was beginning to have reservations. “I hope you understand how important it is that our discussions on this matter never be revealed.”

“Of course, I would never—” He stopped abruptly, staring over my shoulder.

I turned. Lisette was standing in the open doorway with a tray in her hand. “Ah, there you are,” I said.

New Years Day, 1798, 1:00
A.M.

A day of unexpected twists and turns. I should know better than to try my hand at matchmaking. While Lisette was attending me at toilette this morning, I made a suggestion to her. “I have observed that you and Captain Charles have a companionable relationship, Lisette. Have you considered the possibility of a match?”

“You are serious, Madame?” was her initial response. “Me and Wide-Awake?” She giggled.

“The captain may not be wealthy, Lisette, but someday soon he will be a man of means. Do I have your permission to discuss this with him?”