The Josephine B. Trilogy (48 page)

“Rue Vivienne, I believe. Why?”

“Apparently it’s full of armed men.” Barras cursed. “Royalists.” He looked at his timepiece, sighed. “And I’d hoped to get some sleep tonight.”

I left as he was strapping on his sword, ordering a horse tacked, “getting into war gear,” as he put it. I gave him a good luck kiss. “Take care,” I said.

He stopped for a moment. Then he smiled, that crooked smile that makes him so endearing. “So tell me, Rose—
can
Buonaparte be trusted?”

October 5, midnight.

I’m at Thérèse’s. I didn’t think she should be alone tonight.

Lieutenant Floraux was just here, cantering dramatically into the courtyard, his horse lathered with sweat. “The National Guard has rebelled!” he cried out, still breathless. He took off his helmet. His hair was short, as is the fashion with the young now, in what is called a Brutus crop. “They’ve turned on the Assembly, on the Deputies, joined the Royalists!”

“The National Guard?” I asked, incredulous. “Joined the
Royalists?
Are you sure?” I urged him to sit down.

“Not all of them.” He gulped down the glass of port I offered him. “Three out of four.”

How could a defence be mounted without men? “How many Royalists are there?” I wondered if Jeanne-Victoire d’Aiguillon’s nephew was among them. Or Régis de Saale, the Marquis de Caulaincourt’s friend. Or Madame Campan’s young cousin, only seventeen.

“It is thought they are forty thousand strong.”

“
Forty
thousand—mon Dieu!”

“Forty thousand what?” Thérèse asked, coming into the room. She’d been helping the nanny put the baby to bed.

“Royalists,” I said weakly, taking a chair.

October 6, dawn.

We were awakened by the sound of pounding on the gate. Thérèse’s footman ran to answer it, yelling for the intruder to be silent. This set a horse whinnying.

It was Lieutenant Floraux again. The government had rallied, he told us. He helped himself to a glass of port. “They’ve named Deputy Barras General.”

“But without the National Guard, who does he command?” I asked.

“He’s got some men, a tough-looking group, the Sacred Battalion he calls them. ‘Battalion of the Terrorists’ others would have it.”

A battalion of murderers let loose on the streets of Paris. I was thankful the children were in Saint-Germain-en-Laye. “And General Buonaparte? Is…is he involved?” I asked.

“The little Corsican? He’s second-in-command apparently.”

“
Second
-in-command?” Thérèse groaned.

“He may surprise you,” I said.
One need only believe.

“We could use a surprise.” Lieutenant Floraux downed his glass.

10:00
P.M.

At supper, we thought we heard gunfire…

“Can that be
cannon?
” Thérèse asked, walking the baby back and forth across the room.

We heard a second blast, and another.

Thérèse pressed the infant’s head to her heart. “Surely not…”

“They wouldn’t use
cannon,
” I said. “Muskets, but not cannon. Not on citizens.” My words were silenced by a volley of ominous booms.

In which my heart is broken

October 7, 1795.

Blood on the cobblestones. In front of a church, a market woman wailing, “The butchers! The butchers!”

It is as we feared—a slaughter.

“On
citizens!
” Lannoy ranted angrily. “Your friends, your
virtuous
Republicans, fired
cannon
on citizens!”

What had happened? I set out for Minerva’s.

“Have you talked to Barras?” she demanded. “What’s going on?”

I shook my head. “Anyone we know hurt?”
Killed,
I meant to ask, was afraid to ask.

“Only rumours. Everyone’s upset.” We joined a group by the doors to the garden.

“It was the Corsican who gave the command to fire the cannon,” Deputy Renouvier was saying.

“That’s not what I’ve been told,” a man standing next to him said.

“Corsicans are ruthless,” Madame de Méchain argued. “Entirely without morals. Everyone knows that.”

“And now, have you heard? He has set up strict supervision of all the theatres and cafés—even the meeting places around fountains are under surveillance. The fountains!”

“I was at the theatre,” a sweet-faced young man said, his voice high and tremulous. “There were sentries at the doors of all the boxes. If anyone
dared
voice a request for any but the most
correct
Republican tune, there were over a hundred grenadiers there ready to pounce!”

“Is it not critical that the government gain control?” Deputy Renouvier asked.

“Did we not have enough of control under Robespierre?” the sweet-faced young man argued. “The Corsican is a Jacobin I am told.”

“A close friend of Robespierre, I heard,” Madame de Méchain said.

“Not exactly.” Minerva looked to me for support. “He was a friend of Robespierre’s brother.”

“Ah,
Bonbon’s
friend!” the sweet-faced young man said, and everyone laughed.

The group fell silent. I looked toward the door. It was General Buonaparte, looking over the room with a haughty expression. He took off his hat. The tricolour plume fell off. He stooped to retrieve it, his sword knocking against the door.

As he stood, he spotted me.

“Citoyenne Madame Beauharnais,” he said, coming directly to my side, “I—”

“Would you care to walk in the garden, General?” I interrupted him. “I feel the need for air.”

Outside, I fanned myself, feeling somewhat faint. “I am fine.” I sat down on a stone bench. “Thank you.” A man and woman passed. The woman, recognizing General Buonaparte, turned her head in disdain.

Buonaparte broke a branch off a bush, began tearing off the leaves. “The French have a strange way of treating their heroes.”

“You feel your actions are beyond reproach, General?”

“I am a military man, not a politician. I do what I am told.”

“But perhaps too well, and too quickly.”

“The Royalists needed a lesson.”

I stood, my cheeks burning. “I do not know the customs in Corsica, General, but the French, as a rule, do not fire cannon on their citizens.”

I returned to the parlour, trembling.

I was in the game room with Minerva when Barras arrived. “Congratulations on your victory,” Minerva told him, putting down her cards.

He was flushed. He threw himself onto the sofa. “As we soldiers say, when the wine is opened, it must be drunk. To
their
butts,” he said, raising his glass. “For once.” He laughed and took a long drink.

I looked away.

“Damn your tears!” He threw his glass into the fire. It made a sharp, musical sound.

October 12.

It was not yet noon when a member of the National Guard came to my door. All arms were to be turned over to the military authority of Paris. Upon penalty of death.

Eugène, home from school for two days, clasped his father’s sword.

“You must do as you are told,” I told him. I could see defiance in his eyes.

I asked the guard to excuse us. We went into the parlour. Eugène would not relent. I returned to the guard. “How might one obtain an exemption?” I asked. “This sword means a great deal to my son. It belonged to his father, a Republican general who died little over a year ago.”

“Only General Buonaparte can grant an exemption.”

Every day it seemed, Buonaparte was promoted. Now he was Military Governor of Paris, and controlled everything.

“You will come with me?” Eugène asked.

“Better to go without me,” I said, recalling my last angry words with the General.

October 13.

At noon I was surprised by a caller. “General Bona-something,” Agathe said.

“General Buonaparte?”

She nodded.

I stood abruptly. What would I say? Our last meeting had not been gentle.

But I had no time to prepare. He was already standing in the door. “Post this at your gate.” He thrust a piece of paper into my hand.

It was a notice of exemption. “Does this mean my son may keep his father’s sword?”

General Buonaparte nodded. He paused. “On the twelfth day of Vendémiaire,
^*
most of the guns were loaded with blanks. I took care that the citizens had areas available to them that afforded the greatest protection.”

His declaration was followed by an awkward silence.

“Surely my opinion cannot matter to you, General,” I said.

“You are correct. It does not. Nevertheless, I wish you to understand that I am not entirely without conscience.”

“Thank you, General.” But already, he had departed.

October 26.

The election results have been announced. Under the new constitution, five “Directors” will rule. Barras is one.

“They behead the King, put five in his place,” Lannoy grumbled. “And your friend Barras, the worst of the lot.”

“Hush, Lannoy!”

Tuesday, November 3.

The five Directors had a meeting in the Luxembourg Palace this morning. In the afternoon “Director” Barras gave Thérèse and me a tour.

The palace is in frightful repair, its recent use as a prison all too evident. I recalled my visits to Alexandre there. How different my purpose now. There was no furniture—only a few kitchen chairs and one rickety table. And cold, too—Barras sent a footman out for wood.

The five Directors will move in next week, each into his own suite. Already Barras has a work crew covering his walls with silk. His rabbit hutches have been set up in the gardens, his English Thoroughbreds are already in the stable.

“What good a king without a palace?” he asked, surveying his shabby domain.

“What good a palace without ladies of the court?” Thérèse echoed, taking my arm and his.

December 4, 1795—Fontainebleau

Dear Rose,

Thank you for your letter. How wonderful that the children are doing so well in school. I miss seeing Hortense on the weekends, although I must admit that a Sunday confirmation class with Madame Campan is possibly the only excuse I would have happily accepted.

Your new home sounds delightful—small but charming. I am impressed that already you have had vegetables from your garden. Your mother would be proud. I read your account of getting your cow freshened to the Marquis. We both had a laugh over it. If it weren’t for the sad state of my own health and having to tend to the Marquis so religiously, I would accept your invitations to come for a visit.

No doubt you have heard about Fanny being sued by some woman claiming to be her daughter—what a scandal! I don’t know how Fanny manages to be so cheerful, especially now with Marie
marrying
a mulatto. I don’t dare tell the Marquis—the news would kill him.

I know how busy you are, dear, but even so, we long to see you. Do remember what I said about keeping good company.

Your loving Aunt Désirée

Wednesday, December 9.

I’ve been going to the Luxembourg every day, presenting petitions on behalf of friends, and friends of friends—émigrés, for the most part, wishing to return to France.

“You spend too much time on the welfare of others, Rose,” Director Barras said to me this morning. “It is time you considered your own well-being.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you should be thinking of marriage.”

“You have someone in mind,
Père
Barras?”

“Buonaparte.”

“I am not wealthy enough for him, I’m afraid.” Rumour had it General Buonaparte had just proposed to the recently widowed Madame Permon, a woman old enough to be his mother—but quite well-off.

“I’ve assured him he would be well rewarded.”

I looked to the window, took a breath. Perhaps I had not heard correctly.

“I see you are alarmed.” Barras leaned back in his red velvet chair—his “throne” he called it. “Very well, I will explain. Buonaparte has requested command of the Army of Italy. He wishes to pursue a plan to push the Austrians out of Italy.” Barras made a gesture meaning: insane! “Of course my fellow Directors do not trust him. They find him abrupt, abrasive…overly ambitious. They suspect in him a desire to rule—so they are naturally reluctant to grant him an army, even as pathetic an army as that of the Army of Italy.

“But they are fools, I say. Buonaparte
will
try to take over, it is in his nature—unless, of course, he is kept busy. Unless, of course, he is
controlled
—”

“Unless, of course, he is married to a very good friend of yours,” I said.

Barras smiled slowly. “I might not have put it
exactly
that way, my dear.”

“How exactly
did
you put it?” I felt an alarming emotion rising within me.

“I explained to Buonaparte that the French Republic was reluctant to promote foreigners to positions of power. I suggested that if he were to marry a Frenchwoman—a certain French widow, for example—perhaps then the Directors would trust him more, and—who was to say?—perhaps
then
the Army of Italy might very well be his.”

“You told him that!”

“Think about it, Rose. Buonaparte may be a Corsican, and impoverished, I grant you, but he is a man with a future. I am in a position to guarantee it.”

I stood to leave. I was offended by his meddling.

“Rose, must you always be so emotional! You know it is time you married. It’s not easy at your age.”

I headed for the door.

“I offered him an army!” he yelled after me. “I’m
giving
you a dowry, for God’s sake!”

December 10.

I have been hours at my toilette. Tiny wrinkles have begun to line my face. My teeth, never well-formed, are turning black. I have lost two in the last year. I smile, and it’s a fishwife’s grin I see.