The Price of Glory (25 page)

“I feel really relaxed about this,” Nathan assured him, ironically.

“You may find it quite interesting,” Ouvrard replied, not very convincingly. “I am told he can be quite an entertaining companion, when he is not sulking. And besides, it is surely better than meeting him at dawn in the Champs Elysées.” He noted Nathan's expression. “Or perhaps not.”

Nathan paused at the entrance to the Cour du Commerce, his head filled with memories. This little cobbled street near the university had once been the crucible of Revolution. Or, as an agent of the police might have put it: a cesspit of malcontents and political agitators. Danton and Desmoulins had lived in the house on the corner. Danton had rehearsed his speeches here; Camille written his tracts. They used to meet Robespierre at the Café Procope. Marat had lived in the street opposite. He was stabbed to death there by Charlotte Corday—in his bath. Nathan remembered coming here in the time of the Terror, to dine with Camille and his wife, and to meet Danton, who was dithering, with uncharacteristic indecision, over whether to make a move against Robespierre. And now they were all dead; the doomed Children of the Revolution.

If they had known what would happen to them, he wondered, all those rabid young idealists—to their friends and families, to their Revolution—would they have been quite so eager for change? Would Camille have stood on that café table in the Palais Royale in the summer of 1789 and urged the mob to storm the B-B-Bastille? Would Danton have roused the rabble to rise up in defence of their liberties: to fight all the kings of Europe and all their armies with nothing but audacity, audacity, and yet more audacity ? Would Marat have so ardently desired to see the streets bathed in blood? Or Robespierre striven so hard to oblige him?

Probably. They were ruled by something more than their hearts, or even their heads. Danton would have said it was their Destiny.

And where would it end? In the French Republic of Thermidor ruled by Barras and his courtesans: the seraglio of Paris? Or would the kings come back to claim their own? Or would someone emerge from the shadows: a face yet unknown? A new Robespierre or Danton. It seemed impossible, after all that had happened. There was no passion left. He had the feeling that even the French must have had enough drama for one lifetime. That all they desired was a quiet life, to be ruled by lawyers and bankers, who had a vested interest in peace and stability. As for the demagogues and the warmongers, the hotheads and the prophets of change, they could all go back to starving in garrets, or ranting in cafés and hoping they could find someone else to pick up the check.

The Procope was crowded, the clientèle more numerous, more prosperous-looking than in the older days, better clothed, better fed, even, for all the food queues in the streets. All but one, sitting glowering at a table in the corner, out of the light, nothing to eat or drink, all alone and quite ignored. Captain Cannon.

“General.” Nathan strode toward him, swept off his hat, spread his arms in a pantomime of regret and remorse.
What can I say ?
Buonaparte looked up, his expression uncertain, stood awkwardly, indicated the chair opposite. A crossfire of stumbling apologies, explanations, clumsy courtesies. Nathan looked for a waiter, desperate for a drink. The waiters ignored them. He sat. Looked about the room, smiling, wondered what in God's name he could say.

“You come here often?”

An unintelligible answer. Delivered in a heavy Italian accent, the eyes darting about the room under heavy brows, the fingers, which were hairy and very dirty, twitching about the grubby tablecloth like spiders' legs, as if he would tear it in pieces or yank it off and fling it across the room in a fit of desperate rage.

It was a disaster. How on earth were they to get through the next hour and a half? The next few minutes even. Food and drink were the only possible solution, but no-one appeared willing to supply it. Finally Nathan stood, excused himself, and under pretext of looking for the washroom collared a waiter, was directed to the head man, collared
him,
would cheerfully have throttled him but forced a smile instead. He was only lately come to Paris, he said, was unsure of the worth of the
assignat
and would they accept coin. Slipping the astonished man two gleaming
louis d'or,
he begged to be excused his ignorance, but murmured that it was better to be refused now rather than wait until the meal was served and cause offence. “Oh but no offence at all,
monsieur
, not at all,” sliding the King's head out of sight where it would cause none. “And who is
monsieur
dining with today? Ah.” The smile fading somewhat but the coin still warming his pocket if not his heart. “Well, the general is one of our regular customers.” Doubtfully. But—a snap of the fingers and waiters emerged, simpering from the woodwork. The general quite taken aback. The best wine, the best glasses. The general frowning, doubtless considering the expense. “Please, you must be my guest,” Nathan assured him. “I have had some excellent news today. Profitable news. And to dine with the victor of Toulon! Such an honour. It was all we talked about in New York for months.”

Slowly, but perceptibly, the victor of Toulon began to relax. His eyes gleamed with childish delight as dish followed upon dish, bottle upon bottle, the attentive waiters almost lapsing into self-parody. Nathan, too, began to relax, almost to enjoy himself, though he had dined with lovelier companions. Captain Cannon's appearance did not improve upon closer inspection. His eyes were his best feature—sharp and mobile, ever darting this way and that—but as for the rest: his nose was sharp and angular, his cheeks hollow, his complexion pale, almost yellow, and pitted with some skin disease or discolouration which added to the impression that he had not washed for several days. The absurd hat was hanging on the wall behind him like a large dead bat and his spaniel's ears appeared to have been dusted with flea powder. Despite the angularity of his features, his forehead was quite alarmingly broad, as if it had expanded like a balloon with all the knowledge it had absorbed and which its possessor, who had become garrulous, attempted to convey to Nathan with all the enthusiasm of a zealot. His interests were wide and apparently random; his notion of gentlemanly converse to indulge in a series of lengthy monologues on a subject of his choosing. He held forth with equal facility upon philosophy, law, political economics, the classics, astronomy and medicine. When Nathan expressed admiration for such a profundity of knowledge, he admitted that he jotted down all the interesting facts he came upon in a small notebook which he carried about with him on all occasions—he produced it from his pocket and waved it in Nathan's face. It contained everything and anything that might one day be of use to him, he said, and a fact once digested he never forgot.

And did some subjects interest him more than others? Nathan ventured. Ah, yes. The brown eyes gleamed. He was particularly interested in the nature of greatness: of the qualities that contributed to it. Was Nathan aware, for instance, that a surprising number of the great men of history had been found upon their demise to possess three testicles?

Nathan was not so aware. He agreed that this was indeed surprising. He would have thought it had been more widely recognised.

“And what was the purpose of the third testicle, do you think?” he enquired with an interest that was not entirely feigned.

“The purpose,
monsieur?
” The general frowned.

“I mean, what extra virtue might it impart to the bearer? Does it, perhaps, contain the essence of greatness?”

The general confessed that he had long brooded upon this but had come to no significant conclusion, though it might be that it gave the bearer a certain assurance, much as the possession of seven lives imbued a cat with the confidence to take risks that it might otherwise abjure.

“Well, if that is a measure of a man's greatness, then I am destined to remain in obscurity,” Nathan admitted cheerfully. He was rewarded with a deeper and more ominous frown. “I do not suppose it is the only measure,” he concluded hastily.

“No,” the general agreed. He became more sanguine. “I, for instance, have a star.”

“A star?” Nathan was perplexed. “You mean …”

For a moment the general shared his bemusement. Then it dawned upon him what Nathan meant and he exploded with sudden and violent laughter. His face became a better place. He glanced down into his lap and finding nothing more remarkable than a napkin, lifted it with a comic expression and shook it about, as if a star might fall from its ample folds. The transformation was remarkable, at least to Nathan. It would be too much to say that a glow pervaded their corner of the room but in this new mood he possessed a charisma that transmitted itself to the waiters and several of those dining at the nearby tables.

“No. I am as most men in that regard,” he asserted, wiping his eyes with the napkin. “My star is in the usual place: in the heavens. Every man has a star, you know, though mine, alas, has not shone brightly for many a month.”

Nathan said he was sorry to hear it.

“It may have abandoned me entirely,” the general confessed. The clouds had gathered once more about his brow. “I am what you say in English ‘at the seashore.'”

“On the beach,” Nathan corrected him instinctively.

Buonaparte leaned forward across the table and dropped his voice. “It is not widely known, but I once applied to join the British Navy.”

Nathan expressed his surprise.

“It was when I was in Corsica. I was born there,” he confided, as if it was a great secret. Nathan contrived to look astonished. “It had just fallen into the possession of the King of France—it was long before the Revolution, of course—and the people, being of an independent nature and strong-willed, rose in rebellion against him. There was even talk of putting the island under the protection of King George, but it came to nothing.”

“And your application?”

“That, too. I wrote to the Admiralty but they did not reply. Otherwise I might have been the captain of a frigate by now.”

Nathan allowed this was a great loss to the British Navy, if not to France.

“Well, the French do not seem to think so,” Buonaparte replied glumly. “For I have been unemployed now for several months.”

“How can that be,” Nathan enquired, “with the nation at war?”

A shrug. “They wished me to take the command of a brigade of infantry in the Vendée and I was obliged to come to Paris to make a protest. The War Minister was a man called Aubry. Captain Aubry. Forty-five years old and he had not advanced beyond the rank of captain. He was condescending. I was very young to be a brigadier, he said. ‘One ages quickly on the battlefield,' I told him, ‘and I have just come from there.' He took it badly. He insisted upon my joining the Army of the West, under General Hoche.” He made a face as if he had tasted something unpleasant. “When I persisted in my refusal, I was taken off the army list. I am a general in name alone. And so you see me as I am, a ruined man.”

“Would it not have been in your best interests to agree?” Nathan proposed cautiously.

“To serve under Hoche? And in the infantry ? Preposterous! I am an artillery officer, you know.”

“There is a distinction?”

Buonaparte looked astonished. “Very much so. I was trained at the greatest school of artillery in Europe. This was in the days before the Revolution, when for a man of my background—my family were by no means poor, you understand—it was impossible to serve as an officer in a respected regiment of the line without title or influence. But an officer of artillery needs ability, intelligence, an affi nity with mathematics. You have never served in the military ?”

“I regret not. I went to sea at an early age. In the merchant marine.”

“Ah. Well, for an artillery officer to serve in the infantry—and in the Vendée, against rebels, it is a great insult. And besides, I had other plans. I have still.”

Nathan waited for him to expound upon them but unhappily he forbore to do so.

“But I had heard that General Hoche has enjoyed some success in the Vendée,” Nathan said, hoping to provoke an indiscretion, “and the situation is now more settled.”

“Ha! Well, that is what they say. I would be surprised if it were true. The country will never be settled until we have some victories in the field—and I mean in a foreign field.” He lowered his voice. “As it is, I fear the government may not endure. It is only a question of whether it falls to the Jacobins or the Royalists.”

“The Jacobins? Are they still a threat?”

The eyes darted to the surrounding tables but no-one appeared to be taking notice. He leaned forward. “On the day I arrived in Paris a mob, inspired by the Jacobins, surrounded the Convention. They shot one of the deputies dead and put his head on a pike. They called for a return to the days of price controls; even a return of the Terror. It was like the last time I was in Paris when the mob attacked the Tuileries.”

“So? You were in Paris before?”

“I was, in '92, when they massacred the Swiss Guard. I saw it all. Those good soldiers thrown to the wolves, their bodies mutilated. And yet, I tell you, if the King had mounted upon his horse and shown himself their leader, the day would have been his. The Revolution at an end.” He snapped his fingers. “The mob will never stand up to regular infantry. Or artillery,” he added thoughtfully, as if he was even now planning the tactics, making the dispositions. “Not with a half decent commander.”

“And now?”

“Now? Well, for now they are held in check by the National Guard who are for the most part men of substance, shopkeepers and the like, artisans, respectable bourgeoisie. They do not want a return to the days of the Jacobins, the days of the Terror. But if it were the Royalists and not the Jacobins …” He inclined his head in consideration.