Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe (38 page)

“You’ve not seen her yet? You’ve not been out to Saint-Germain?” “I understand you and the General will be going out tomorrow morning.”

“And Hortense, and Eugène. Do you wish …? Would you like to come with us?”

“Oh, yes,” he exclaimed, clearly terrified to go by himself.

October 28.

We set out for Saint-Germain early, Bonaparte, Lavalette, Hortense and I in the carriage, Eugène riding beside us on Pegasus, his splendid new horse. The road was a bit heavy in spots, so it was noon by the time we pulled into the school courtyard.

“General Bonaparte, we are honoured.” Madame Campan, wrapped in a black cape, dipped her head. We were ushered into her office—all but Hortense, that is, who went running to find Emilie (to warn her). A bell sounded; the ceiling shook with the sound of stampeding girls. “I’m to fetch your wife, Lieutenant Lavalette?” Madame Campan asked.

“Madame Campan, if you don’t mind, I’d like to tell Émilie myself,” I said, moving toward the door.

It had been over a year since I’d been in the upper storey of the school. The air was heavy with the smell of pomade and starch. Two girls in the green hats of second-year students were gliding down the hall, arms linked, giggling as they slid on the waxed parquet.

“Hortense is in that room,” the girl with golden ringlets said, pointing across the hall.

The door creaked open. “She refuses to go downstairs,” Hortense whispered, stepping aside. Emilie was huddled on a narrow bed in the corner, her scars inflamed.

I sat down at the foot of the bed. “Are you afraid, Emilie?” Her husband certainly was.

“No!”

“What is it then?”

“I don’t want to be married.” (I thought, If you only knew, poor girl, how lucky you are.) And then, her voice low, “To him.”

Lieutenant Lavalette’s eyes filled with tears when he saw his wife’s scarred face. I’d prepared him as best I could, but even so, the sight could only have been a shock, she is so terribly disfigured.

“Ah, so it is true. You’ve been poxed,” Bonaparte said.

Emilie stood in the doorway, her reddened eyes fixed on the toes of her lace-up boots. “Yes, General Bonaparte. Sir.” She glanced at Eugène, nodded a furtive, shy greeting. Eugène went up to her, pressed his cousin to his heart. I was touched by my son’s tenderness. He’d so comforted Émilie when she was a child of four, and he not much older. “Your husband saved my life,” he told her. “More than once.”

Lavalette flushed modestly, clutching his hat.

And now perhaps this gentle man might save the heart of this girl, I thought—if only she would let him.

October 29, early morning.

“You paid 325,000 for it?” Bonaparte regarded the château of Malmaison, its crumbling façade, the roof in need of repair, the cracked glass on a second-storey window.

“But Bonaparte—” I started to remind him that he himself had offered 300,000, but thought better of it. “It’s less than one hour from Paris and the grounds are superb. Plus, the winery alone brings in an income of eight thousand francs annually.” Well, seven. “The agent felt it was an exceptional value.”

“The chicken coop has more prestige.”

But by the end of the day, after riding the property on horseback, looking over the sheep herd and talking with the estate-steward about the sugar content of this year’s grape harvest, even Bonaparte had begun to succumb to the charm of the place. At nightfall we sat by the roaring fire playing backgammon, while Hortense played a new composition she had written on the piano and Eugène mended fishing gear.

At nine Bonaparte and I retired, taking candles up to our drafty little bedroom ourselves. We slid between the frigid bed sheets, our teeth chattering, our feet seeking the hot brick wrapped in flannel. Then, in our little cocoon of warmth, we talked and loved, talked and loved.

Evening—Paris.

We’re back in the city. This afternoon I’ve meetings with tradesmen. Bonaparte wishes work done on Malmaison—renovations, furnishings, gardens! He loves it there.

October 30.

“What are you thinking?” I nudged Bonaparte with my toe. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, motionless as a statue.

“That I should talk to Director Gohier,” he said finally, as if waking from a trance.

“Concerning …?”

Fauvelet came to the door, a stack of journals under his arm. “The General’s bath awaits,” he said grandly.

Bonaparte stood, took the tiny cup of Turkish coffee his secretary handed him, downed it in one swallow. “Concerning getting elected director.”

3:00
P.M.

“Basta.”
Bonaparte pulled at his boots, kicking one free. It went flying across the foyer and hit the door.

“Director Gohier wasn’t helpful?” I followed him, retrieving his boots. They were filthy, in need of a polish.

Bonaparte threw himself down on a chair and glared into the fire. He was wearing the pair of leather breeches that the actor Talma had lent him, so that he would have something presentable to wear to meetings with the Directors. They should have been returned. I tugged at his toe to get his attention.

“I told him I wanted to be a director.”

“And what was his response?” Both in Italy and in Egypt Bonaparte had proved his genius for administration. If he were one of the five Directors, perhaps the Republic would—

“He laughed at me! ‘You’re too young, the constitution doesn’t allow it, it wouldn’t be legal.’“ Bonaparte’s voice was mocking. “Legal! The constitution is strangling this country and they refuse to do anything about it. They pray at the altar of the law, as if it were the word of God, this thing, this constitution they serve. They forget that it is the other way around—
we made
the laws, we created the constitution and
we can
change it.” Pacing, his hands behind his back. “And if they won’t, I will!”

October 31.

A hectic but exciting day at Malmaison, planning gardens, supervising improvements. Hortense’s new horse was delivered, a lovely bay cob mare. It raced around the paddock, whinnying to Pegasus. “Thank you for the horse, General Bonaparte,” Hortense said, addressing her stepfather as if
he were a guest—an honoured guest, but a guest none the less.

In the late afternoon the four of us—Bonaparte, Eugène, Hortense and I—surveyed the grounds on horseback, talking with the workers. Then Eugène and Bonaparte raced their horses back to the château.

“You know, Hortense, it would please Bonaparte if you called him Papa,” I said to her, our horses walking lazily.

“Yes, Maman,” she said, her eyes welling up with tears.

[Undated]

This evening I noticed Bonaparte standing in front of the pianoforte, studying a sheet of music—
Partant pour la Syrie,
a marching song Hortense wrote when she was sick with worry about her brother in Egypt. “That’s one of Hortense’s compositions,” I said.

“It’s good,” he said thoughtfully, flicking one corner with his fingernail.

November 1
—
back in Paris.

“Do you know what Minister Fouché told me?” Fortunée Hamelin asked, stooping to tie the leather thong of her Roman-style sandal. “He suspects someone fairly high up in the government may be in league with the Royalists.” She sat up, demurely tucking a breast back into her bodice.

“How high up?” Madame de Crény asked, playing a card. “A director.”

“Can’t get any higher than that.”

“That’s
interesting. I heard that one of the directors was sending copies of all the minutes and correspondence to England.”

“What an awful thought!”

“And so, of course, everyone suspects Barras.”

“Ah, poor Père Barras, everybody’s favourite bad boy.”

“My linen maid is convinced the Royalists gave Director Barras five million.”

“I heard two million.”

“Rumours!”

“But that’s not the worst of it.”

“Oh?”

“The worst of it, is they’re saying that General Hoche found out, and so Barras had him—”

No!
Don’t say
it.

“—poisoned.”

And now, alone in my dressing room, I prepare for bed. I’ve bathed, powdered, done up my hair in a pretty lace nightcap. Waiting for Bonaparte, who is in meetings still. It is a peaceful picture I see in the glass, a woman writing in her journal. The candlelight throws a soft halo of light. Yet within me there is no peace, for I am disturbed by some of the things that the Glories said this afternoon. Gossip, I know, but even so, an evil seed of doubt has been planted in my heart. I think I know Barras—but do I? I thought I knew Lisette.

November 2, late.

Thérèse looked like a goddess of fertility, comfortably enthroned in Ouvrard’s opulent box at the Opéra-Comique. At six months, her belly prominent, her bosom abundant, she was a vision of voluptuous femininity.

“I feel I haven’t seen you for a decade,” I said, kissing her. “Sorry I’m late.” The three hammer strokes had sounded as I’d entered the lobby, but then there had been greetings to exchange with Fortunée Hamelin and Madame de Crény.

On stage two actors were engaged in a heated debate, two ladies under a “tree” looking on, bemused, fluttering enormous feather fans. “You haven’t missed anything.” Thérèse took my hand and didn’t let it go.

The two men began chasing the two women around a bush. The people in the pit stood up and started yelling, waving their arms. “Is Ouvrard not here?” I asked.

“He detests opéra bouffe.” Thérèse leaned forward into the glare of the gaslights. “Oh, there he is—with Talleyrand. Ah, and look—” She nodded to the left. “Our newly elected President of the Five Hundred.” She stuck her nose in the air, a mocking gesture.

Lucien Bonaparte? I ducked back out of view. “I told Bonaparte I was at the riding school. He doesn’t approve of the Opéra-Comique. He thinks I should only go to the Théâtre de la République.” But the truth was, I didn’t want him to know I was meeting Thérèse.

“He’s getting to be such a snob.” But smiling. “How is our darling boy?”

Thérèse considered Bonaparte a friend, but a history of favours and affection did not hold much credit in his eyes, I’d discovered—especially now, with her illicit pregnancy so visible. “Busy.”

“I hear you’ve started your evenings again. From what I gather, all of Paris comes to your salon.” She poured a glass of champagne, handed it to me. “Don’t worry, darling, I won’t embarrass you. I’ve been a social outcast for so long it doesn’t even bother me.”

A big man in the pit stood up and shook his fist at the stage. Others were pulling at him, trying to get him to sit down.

“Well! I knew the loveliest ladies would be in Ouvrard’s box.” Barras, his legendary hat askew, appeared with Toto tucked under one arm, wrapped in a red cashmere scarf. “So the General let you out tonight, Madame Bonaparte?”

“You brought Toto to the theatre?” I put out my hands.

“He’s not feeling well. The two of us actually.”

“He’s cold,” I said, tightening the scarf around the quivering creature. The miniature greyhound resembled a rat more than a dog. “You’ll join us, darling?” Thérèse asked.

“Is the General among us?” Barras looked behind the curtain. A stone on his little finger caught the light—an enormous ruby. “Or is he still in hiding?”

Barras had been drinking, I suspected. There was something dangerous in his manner. “I couldn’t induce Bonaparte to venture out,” I said. The public’s enthusiasm for my husband made appearances difficult. But I couldn’t say that to Barras.

“A wise move. We’ve had reports that his army want to kill him—for deserting them in that godforsaken land.” He smirked. “For leaving them to die.”

Thérèse threw me a look of caution.

“Forgive me, ladies! We are enjoying an evening of light opera, are we not? Certainly not tragedy, of which the much-applauded General does not approve.” In fact, Bonaparte enjoyed tragedy, loved classical theatre, but I didn’t think it wise to correct him. “Of course not,” he ranted on. “The General understands Parisians. They want only victory, glory, a glittery show. But caution, Citoyennes—for they weary quickly. Indeed, one must ask, does such a fickle people even deserve democracy? Perhaps there is something to be said for the stability of a monarchy. The French are a feminine people—they
long
to be dominated.” He smiled. “What a shocking thing to say! How fortunate to be among friends.”

November 3.

Shortly after eleven I heard the sound of a horse galloping down the lane. Only Bonaparte galloped into the courtyard—he knew no other pace. Then I heard the front door slam.

“How did it go?” I’d been waiting for him to return.

“How did
what go?”
Tossing his hat onto a table.

“Your meeting with Barras,” I said, taking up his hat, wiping the rain from the brim.

Bonaparte threw himself into a chair by the fire. “Well, you were right about one thing—Barras agrees that a change is in order.” He jumped back to his feet. “Indeed, he even told me the Republic is in need of someone to take the helm, a man with vision, a military man who enjoys the confidence of the people.”

Yes, I nodded, almost fearfully. It was obvious to everyone who that man was.

“He even informed me that he has the man picked out.” Bonaparte paused for effect. “General Hedouville.”

Hedouville? Who was Hedouville?

Bonaparte hit the wall with this fist. “Exactly! Hedouville is a nobody. Barras insults me by making such a suggestion. Wasting—my—time.” He enunciated each word with spite.

I took a breath, not moving. “No doubt there has been a misunderstanding.”

Bonaparte stomped out of the room, knocking an ancient Egyptian vase to the floor as he went by.

November 4.

“I’ve decided to go with Director Sieyès,” Bonaparte informed me at breakfast.

“But—” Sieyès and Bonaparte detested each other!

“The romance of the Revolution is finished; it’s time to begin its history.” He downed his scalding coffee in one gulp and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Can I count on you?”