The Last Great Dance on Earth (10 page)

“I can see why Paris is abuzz with gossip about
those
two,” I told Eugène later, setting up for a game of billiards. I took the opening shot, a strong one that scattered the balls with a gratifying clatter.

Eugène shrugged, chalking his cue. By the light of the candles, he appeared to be flushed. Was it wine? No, I didn’t think so. My son is moderate in his habits (at least around family). “Prince Borghése is a good match for Pauline,” he said, not meeting my eyes.

“Fortunately, they don’t seem to mind waiting to marry,” I said, studying the table.

“Maman …”

“Piffle,” I said, missing my shot.

“Maman, there’s something I’ve got to tell you. But you must promise not to tell Papa.”

“You know I can’t promise that, Eugène.”

“Well …” He grimaced. “Pauline and Prince Borghèse are already married.”

“They’re …?”
Married?

“The first of September, Maman, at Mortefontaine—seven weeks ago. Joseph and Lucien were in on it,” he went on nervously. “Julie told her dressmaker, who in turn told Hortense, who of course told—”

Hortense knew! “And she didn’t tell
me?
And no one told Bonaparte?”
Mon Dieu.
I could just imagine the explosion. War with England is one thing—but to be played for a fool by his own family is another matter altogether. “Eugène, Bonaparte is going to be furious. He’s just announced Pauline’s engagement.”

“That’s why you mustn’t tell him, Maman!”

[Undated]
“They’re
what?”

I nodded, my mouth dry. “September first,” I said finally, swallowing. “They’ve been married for two
months?”

“But only a church service, not the legal one. I suppose that makes a difference?” Timidly!

“Sacrebleu! I can’t believe it,” Bonaparte muttered. “Who do they think I am? Some puppet they can play with—pull my strings, then put me away in a box when I get in the way?” He came to an abrupt stop, staring into the fire. “I suppose they all knew.”

“I just found out myself,” I said, rushing to assure him. “I debated whether or not to tell you. I know how much you have on your mind right now, and …” I held out my hands, palms up, a gesture of appeasement. “But in the end, I thought you would prefer to know.”

“I’m leaving immediately for Boulogne on an urgent military matter,” he said, sitting down at the escritoire, rummaging around for a quill, then scratching something on a scrap of paper. “Inform Pauline that I’m leaving with the express intention of
not
being present at the farce of her so-called wedding. I’ll be away for two weeks.”

“Bonaparte, it might be best if—”

“And furthermore!” His quill snapped, splattering droplets of ink onto his shirt. He pulled out the drawer of the secretaire with such force that it ended up in his lap, the contents strewn, sand everywhere. Quickly I scooped up a quill from the floor and handed it to him. “And furthermore,” he went on, oblivious to the mess, “advise her that it would be in her best interest if she and her idiot husband departed for Rome before I return.”

November 6, Sunday—Mortefontaine.

“Bonaparte said to send his regrets.” I embraced Pauline. She was drenched in a syrupy scent that caught in my throat, made me cough. “He was called away on an urgent military matter.” I made a peaceable
half-bow to Prince Borghèse (who could have used some scent).

“You don’t have to lie, beloved sister.” The “bride” broke into a mirthful giggle. “I guess I surprised him!”

“Yes, the First Consul was …
surprised,”
I said, putting off informing her of Bonaparte’s demand that she and her husband leave Paris immediately. Perhaps after the ceremony, I thought. But after the ceremony, Bonaparte’s brother Lucien made an announcement that he himself had remarried one week before!

“I’m happy for you, Lucien,” I lied, numb with shock.

Now, in the quiet of my room, I feel a sick head pain coming on, imagining Bonaparte’s fury—deceived not once, but twice.

November 10
—
Saint-Cloud.

Family dinner tonight. Pauline agreed that she and Prince Borghèse will leave Paris before Bonaparte returns—on condition that she is formally “presented” at Saint-Cloud. Reluctantly I consented.

November 13, Sunday.

I should have guessed that
Princess
Pauline would make a theatrical event of the occasion. She and Prince Borghèse arrived at Saint-Cloud in a carriage drawn by six white horses, outriders in livery before and after carrying torches. My dame d’annonce threw open the double doors and announced (or rather, yelled), “Prince and Princess Borghèse.”

Pauline entered the salon in a halo of blinding light, for she had adorned herself with virtually all the Borghèse diamonds. Her head, ears, neck and arms were loaded with a gaudy display of the priceless brilliants. Shuffling her feet to give the impression of floating, she approached me with her head bent forward in that strange position she considers regal.

“Madame,”
she said, bowing (slightly) before me, holding her hands rigid in order to avoid an unsightly bend at the wrist. Her eyes swept the crowd.
She
is a princess, and “a
real
one,” she informed everyone, I’m told, coquetting with the men and loudly referring to her husband the prince as “that idiot.”

They leave for Rome tomorrow.

November 19—Saint-Cloud.

“So!” Bonaparte yawned. “How did it go with Pauline?”

“As well as could be expected,” I said cautiously, pulling the covers up over us. “They left five days ago for Rome.” I didn’t want to tell him about Lucien, but I knew I had to. “I have bad news, however.” Quick, I thought, get it over with! “Lucien has married as well.” I braced for an explosion, but there was only silence. “Madame Jouberthou, the widow of a broker.” I winced before adding, “They married after the birth of their son.” (But
before
they were sure that her husband was, in fact, dead. This I refrained from saying.)

“Lucien has a son?”

“Six months old now.”

“I don’t understand. He told me he’d consider marrying the Queen of Etruria,”
^*
Bonaparte said, trying to comprehend. “And he was already married when he told me that?” He was silent for what seemed a long time. “Sometimes I wonder if my family even cares about me,” he said finally.

“Your family loves you.”

He took me in his arms. “I only have you.”

We talked until dawn—of his mother, his brothers and sisters, Hortense and Eugène. We shared our enchantment with little Napoleon. Bonaparte said that although we would miss seeing the baby every day, he thought it would be good for Hortense and Louis to live in Compiègne for a time, Louis to take command of the troops stationed there. We talked of the challenges ahead, of preparing to battle England—and then, very late, Bonaparte began to talk of what was truly on his mind.

“What will happen if I die? What will become of France?” It was an outpouring of emotion, as if he had needed to unburden himself. “Who can I talk to? Who can I trust?”

I put his hand to my heart.

November 24.

“I’m tired of going out to the theatre every night,” Bonaparte said last night. “Let’s stay in—just the two of us.” This with an amorous look.

Mimi grinned at me as she closed the door behind her. No flowers are being sent up to the little room.

January 28, 1804
—
Tuileries.

I didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed to hear Fouché announced late this evening. I knew he would not have called at such an hour without a reason.

“Ah, Senator Fouché, it’s good to see you,” Bonaparte said, inviting him to join us in our private suite. “A Corsican will always invite a caller to his hearth,” he added, attempting to be convivial.

It was chilly in the drawing room. Bonaparte fanned the embers. “And so?” he said, turning to face his former Minister of Police, his arms crossed. “You must have something to report.”

“Bonaparte!” I said, pouring our guest a glass of verjuice. “Do we not inquire, first, as to Madame Fouché, all the charming Fouché children?” I smiled at my friend as I handed him the grape drink I knew he preferred. “Everyone is well?”

“As well as can be expected,” Fouché said, downing the glass. “Yes, First Consul, I thought you might be interested to know that the Royalist agent Cadoudal is back in Paris—plotting your death yet again.”

Cadoudal! The Royalist agent responsible for the Christmas Eve bomb—the “infernal machine”? I looked at Bonaparte, alarmed. “But I thought Cadoudal was in England.”

“It appears he has been in town for several months,” Fouché said evenly, “working on behalf of the Pretender. Financed by England, no doubt.”

“That’s impossible!” Bonaparte exploded.

“As you so often point out, First Consul, ‘impossible’ is not a French word.”

“Cadoudal is as big as an ox. I ask you, how could he be in this city without the police being aware of it?”

“I asked myself the same question. How
could
they have missed him? According to my informants, Georges Cadoudal was hoisted by ship cable up a 250-foot cliff close to Dieppe on the fourth of Fructidor—August twenty-first. No doubt your police know the spot: certainly it is well-known to smugglers.”

“End of August? Mon Dieu, Bonaparte—that’s almost five months ago.”

Bonaparte faced Fouché, his hands fists. “If this is a ruse on your part to discredit the police so that you will be reinstated as minister, it won’t do any good.”

“I didn’t expect that you would believe me, First Consul,” Fouché said, handing Bonaparte a scrap of paper. “I suggest you ask your police to have a word with this man at the abode indicated. His hours are regular. He’s there until 9:50 every morning. He’ll tell you what you need to know. In any case, it would be prudent to double or triple the number of guards you have protecting you.” In the doorway, he tipped his hat. “At your service, First Consul, as always.”

“Sacrebleu! This again,” Bonaparte cursed.

February 5, Sunday—Paris.

I was preparing to go calling this afternoon when Bonaparte appeared. He sat down in his customary armchair next to my toilette table, fiddling with the crystal stopper of a bottle of lavender water. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“Madame de Souza is receiving this afternoon.” I smoothed another dab of ceruse
^*
under my eyes. I had not been sleeping well.

“Madame de Souza, the wife of the Spanish ambassador, and a writer of romances.” Bonaparte pushed out his lips, as if considering this information.

“It’s a pre-carnival fête, she said, in lieu of a ball,” I explained, leaning into the glass to see how my make-up looked, then leaning back, squinting to get the effect. “Idle chatter, ladies mostly—the type of thing you hate. I made excuses for you.”

But he wasn’t listening. “I’d like you to take an escort,” he said, drumming his fingers.

“But Bonaparte, it’s only minutes away, and I’ll have the pages with me, as well as two guards.” The usual parade. (Oh, for the days when I could go out alone!) “Getting an escort together would take at least thirty minutes and I’m running behind as it is.”

“Josephine …” He paused, sitting forward, leaning his forearms on his knees. “Fouché was right. Cadoudal
is
in Paris, along with a number of other assassins, as it turns out.”

“A
number?”
Bonaparte rarely showed alarm, but something in his manner—the very stillness of his expression—made me wary.

“Twenty-four, to be precise.”

“In Paris!” I reached for a handkerchief, pressed it to my mouth, inhaled the calming scent of lavender.

His hand felt hot on my shoulder. “We’re hiring more guards and closing the gates to the city at night.”

But the assassins were
in
the city, not outside. “Bonaparte, we
need
Fouché.”

“Don’t worry. Unofficially Fouché will be overseeing everything.” “That’s reassuring,” I said, sitting back. Maybe, with Fouché watching, we will be safe.

Shortly after 11:00 P.M.

The city gates are to be closed from seven each evening to six the next morning. Searches have begun of all carriages and wagons, looking for evidence of Cadoudal, his accomplices.

“Just like
those
days,” Clari said, meaning the Terror. Only this time, we’re the ones closing the gates, we’re the ones searching.

February 8
—
late, almost midnight.

“What is this about?” Signora Letizia jabbed her stiff finger at a copy of
Le Moniteur.

“What it’s about, Maman, is that England has hired a Royalist thug to murder your son,” Caroline answered, lingering over the word
murder
for effect.

“Ca-doo-dahl?”

“But don’t worry,” I said, offering my mother-in-law the seat of honour. “The police have it well in hand.” Fouché, in fact—but that I could not say. I dared not even hint that the man the clan had persuaded Bonaparte to demote had been the one to uncover the plot. Had it not been for Fouché, Bonaparte might well be dead.

“Worry? The Funds are up,” Elisa said between hiccups.

“Nothing like a little crisis to stimulate the economy,” Joseph responded with a satisfied look. “I’ve a meeting at the Bourse tomorrow morning, Maman. Would you like me to speak with the man who handles your investments?”

“Naturalmente,” Signora Letizia said, her knitting needles clattering.

“Perhaps now is as good a time as any to make a family announcement.” Joseph smiled uneasily. “I’ve word from the Islands that Jérôme has married an American girl in Baltimore.”

Mon Dieu, I thought, glancing at Bonaparte. Not another one.

“That’s impossible,” Bonaparte said evenly. “Jérôme’s only nineteen. Legally, he can’t marry without permission.”

“He can in America, apparently,” Joseph said.

“Basta!”

First Pauline, then Lucien, and now Jérôme.

February 10
—
Tuileries.

Louis and Hortense arrived from Compiègne last night. “Did you get my letter?” I asked, embracing my daughter. She has put on weight, which pleases me. “You didn’t bring the baby?”

“He’s asleep in his basket,” Louis said, stepping aside to let the maid
in with a tray. “What’s going on? We had a difficult time getting through the city gates.”

“The police have uncovered another plot against Bonaparte.” How much could I tell them? “Remember Cadoudal?” Hortense looked at me, alarmed.
“He’s
in Paris?” “He is believed to be here somewhere.” “But I thought he was in England,” Louis said. “No doubt he’s in the
pay
of England,” I said.

We heard tuneless singing outside the door, and then a baby’s squeal. Bonaparte appeared in the doorway with little Napoleon in his arms. “At least
he
likes my singing,” he said with a grin.

February 14, Shrove Tuesday—Tuileries.

Still no sign of Cadoudal, but a Royalist in the Abbaye Prison has admitted coming to France with him. The plan, he said, was to kidnap Bonaparte. The essential coup, they called it.

“Kidnap? That’s a ruse. The only way to get rid of me is to kill me,” Bonaparte ranted.

Frankly, we are all shocked. According to this Royalist’s confession, General
Moreau
is implicated, one of the most popular generals in the Republican armies. How can that be?

4:35 P.M.

Bonaparte is constantly in meetings with the Special Council. Now and again he emerges with a drawn look.

February 15, very early.

Bonaparte didn’t sleep at all last night, tossing this way and that until the covering sheet was in a damp knot. With the first light of dawn, he sat up. “I’ve come to a decision.”

I knew from the slump of his shoulders what it would be.

February 16.

The news of Moreau’s arrest was made public this morning. Everyone is stunned. Even the market was silent, Mimi told me.

March 8
—
Malmaison.

I persuaded Bonaparte that we should move to Malmaison for a few weeks to escape the tension in Paris, but even here, in this beautiful season, fear robs us of repose. Couriers come and go, officials with leather portfolios and sombre expressions. Daily Bonaparte is in meetings, locked up with his advisors. Still no sign of Cadoudal.

March 9—our eighth-year anniversary.

Our anniversary dinner was interrupted by a caller: Fouché. “Show him in,” Bonaparte said, pushing back his plate of chicken bones.

Fouché appeared in mud-splattered top boots. “Cadoudal has been found.”

“Arrested?”

“One of the conspirators alerted us to a plan to move him to another hiding spot. We apprehended his cabriolet on Place St-Étienne-du-Mont, but in the struggle he managed to escape.”

“Answer my question, Fouché,” Bonaparte said.
“Has
Cadoudal been arrested?”

“His carriage only got as far as Place de l’Odèon, where he was cut off by two policemen. One grabbed the horse, and Cadoudal shot him dead. The second officer was shot in the hip as he attempted to hit Cadoudal with a club. Then Cadoudal jumped from the carriage—”

“Now I know you’re deceiving me. Cadoudal jump? He is a big man—he finds just stepping down out of a carriage difficult.”

“First Consul, I may be devious, but I never lie. As Cadoudal began to run, the wounded officer—with the help of two brave citizens, I should add—managed to grab him and hit him over the head.”

“So he
is
in custody. Has he confessed?”

“Only that he came to Paris with the intention of overthrowing you. His attitude is … well, certainly not repentant. When informed that the
policeman he’d killed was a husband and father, he suggested we send bachelors on such missions next time.” “The bastard.”

“The
wealthy
bastard. His pockets were stuffed with English gold. They have paid him well.”

“Give it to the officer’s widow.”

“We already have.”

Immediately after Fouché left, Talleyrand appeared. “We have apprehended Cadoudal, First Consul,” he said, bowing deeply, his voice fawning.

“I am already aware of that, Minister Talleyrand. Fouché was just here.”

Talleyrand blinked slowly. Only a crease on each side of his mouth gave any indication of the displeasure he must have felt at his rival’s getting the rightful credit for the arrest. “I have been studying the documents found in Cadoudal’s effects.” Talleyrand presented a portfolio of papers, holding it out reverently in white-gloved hands as if offering up a sacrament.

Bonaparte pulled the parchment papers out and quickly riffled through them. “Explain,” he said, throwing them down.

“According to these documents, First Consul, Cadoudal and his men were waiting for someone they referred to as ‘the prince’ to join them before they made their move.”

Bonaparte paced. “What prince?”

“Perhaps we should discuss this in your office, First Consul.” “Speak!”

“Two of Cadoudal’s servants have been questioned. They each declared that every ten or twelve days a gentleman came to call on Cadoudal—a man of middle height, corpulent and balding. Cadoudal always met him at the door, so apparently he was a person of consequence. When he was in the room, nobody sat down.”

“And you think this man is ‘the prince.’”

“It is a logical conclusion.”

“A Bourbon prince?”

“Likely.”

“It doesn’t sound like either the Pretender or his brother.”

“But the Duke d’Enghien resides one hundred and thirty leagues from Paris, First Consul—just across the Rhine river at Ettenheim.”

“Enghien fought against us in Italy,” Bonaparte said, frowning.

“The last hope of the house of Bourbon, it is said. It’s possible that the plan was for Enghien to come to Paris as soon as you were”—Talleyrand paused for effect—
“dispensed
with. As a Bourbon representative, so to speak, he would have held Paris until the Pretender arrived from England and mounted the throne.”

“The Duke d’Enghien is slender, Minister Talleyrand, is he not?” I asked, turning. He is said to be a charming man, and handsome—certainly not corpulent and balding. It is rumoured he has secretly married Princess de Rohan-Rochefort—la belle Charlotte. “In his late twenties, I would guess, and—”

But the men were already on their way out the door. Their voices grew faint until I could hear no longer. “I believe, First Consul, that … a lesson to those … endless conspiracies … the shedding of royal …”

The shedding of royal blood,
I believe I heard Talleyrand say.

Now, recalling that conversation, playing it over in my mind, I am more and more uneasy. Why was Talleyrand pressing Bonaparte to suspect the Duke d’Enghien—a Bourbon prince beloved by Royalists everywhere?

I don’t trust Talleyrand, frankly. He reminds me of a snake—he sheds coats too easily. He expresses admiration for, even worship of, Bonaparte—but is he sincere? He is known to take bribes, to extort enormous sums in his international dealings. His “loyalty” is of the kind that is bought for money, I suspect.

March 18
—
Paris.

Before Mass this morning Bonaparte told me, his voice so low I could hardly hear him, “We’ve arrested the Duke d’Enghien.”

At first I didn’t understand. “But isn’t the Duke d’Enghien in Germany?”

“What does it matter? What is important is the charge: conspiring to commit murder—
my
murder.”