Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe (28 page)

This letter is to inform you that my husband is available to take over the command of the fort in Marseille. Please inform Director Barras that General Bonaparte’s brother-in-law is the only suitable candidate for the post. We will move to Marseille in July.

Elisa Bonaparte Bacchiocchi

[Undated]

After posting my letters, I took a long walk up the mountain to a little chapel perched at the top of a steep hill, a charming stone structure overlooking the valley. I had to pry open the door. It was musty and damp inside. The silence was heavy, comforting. I sat for a time thus, alone with my thoughts. On impulse, I knelt.

So many prayers tumbled out of my heart! I prayed for the safety of the fleet, for Bonaparte and the boys. I prayed that Émilie would come to
love her husband and that my daughter’s heart would calm. I prayed for the health of Aunt Désirée and the old Marquis, and for the success of my treatment here. I prayed that the Bodin Company would prosper and that I would soon be able to pay off my debts and provide for my children’s future. But above all, I prayed for patience in dealing with Bonaparte’s family.

June 18.

A day at the baths—huge, steaming pools dotted with heads, women in bright scarves. The cavernous chamber echoed the sounds of laughter, whispered gossip. Shoulders immersed, toes emerging, a knee, two. Floating languorously, a woman laughs, another blows bubbles. A dream world, this.

[Undated]

I’ve had an accident.
^*
Hortense is with me now, thank God. Great pain, despair.

June 23, Rue de Thrévenot, Paris
Dear Rose,

To think that you almost died! I am enclosing an ounce of licorice and coriander seeds your girl could make up into an excellent purge. Scrape the licorice and slice it thin, bruise the seeds and put these both in a pint of water and boil it a little. Strain this water into an ounce of senna and let it sit for six hours. Strain from the senna and drink it while fasting.

Remember your prayers, now more than ever.

Your godmother, Aunt Désirée

Note—My neighbour informed me that the fleet is headed to Spain. She read it in the
Messager des Relations Extérieures.
But an article in the
Postillon de Calais
said your husband intended to seize the island of Malta. Isn’t that in the other direction?

June 23, La Chaumière
Darling,

The Glories wept to hear of your terrible fall. It’s shocking to think that such a thing could happen at a health spa. Barras informs me that the doctor insists you will recover. I’m sending a parcel of remedies. I was comforted to learn that Hortense is with you.

Your loving friend, Thérèse

June 24, Luxembourg Palace
Chère amie,

Dr. Martinet assures me you are out of danger. You must be his only patient; the memos he sends would take hours to prepare, not to mention the reports he has been publishing in a medical journal in which he describes in fulsome detail each and every enema he administers. (Are you aware of this?)

I wrote to General Brune
^*
as you requested. I will let you know as soon as I hear. The last thing you need to worry about right now is the fate of the Bodin Company. Don’t worry, my dear, “Papa will fix it.”

Père Barras

July 8.

It has been eighteen days now. My arms, although still horribly bruised and painful to move, are out of the bandages. At least I am able to feed myself again, and to write, although my script is feeble, like that of an old woman. I am both comforted and plagued by a constant stream of well-wishers.

I can remember very little of the actual fall. The first thing I recall is lying on the street with men standing over me, everything dreamlike. And then the sharp pain of being turned—I’m told I cried out horribly—and then the sickening comfort of something warm and moist on my skin, the woollish smell of blood (for a quick-witted servant had slaughtered a lamb and wrapped me in its still-warm hide). Then the treatments began—the enemas and douches, the baths, the leeches, the bleeding and the infusions. I am determined to get better if only to end the “cure”!

Hortense is doting and sweet (but bored, I fear). “I love you,” I told her this morning, as she wheeled me around in my invalid chair. “Whatever happens to me, I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

She stooped down under my sunshade and kissed me on the cheek. “You
will walk
again, Maman.”

This tenderness between us almost makes my suffering worthwhile.

July 10.

Again, terrible pain—just when I thought I was getting better. I am overcome with a feeling of hopelessness. It has been twenty days and I still can’t stand.

9 Messidor, Luxembourg Palace
Chère amie,

I want you to be the first to know. Bonaparte has dodged Nelson’s ships and taken Malta—a stroke of incredible good fortune.

Père Barras

July 16.

I walked for three minutes. Shooting pain.

22 Messidor, Luxembourg Palace
Chère amie,

No doubt you are recovering, judging from the constant stream of petitioners you have been sending my way. Regarding your requests, please note that I have:

1. Found employment for the nephew of the former Abbess of the Convent of Panthémont.

2. Seen to it that Bonaparte’s doctor’s wife, Citoyenne Yvan, was sent her bonus. (She asked me to tell you that Pugdog is content and has even grown plump.)

3. Named Citoyen Félix Bacchiocchi, the General’s esteemed (sic) brother-in-law, commander of Fort Saint-Nicolas in Marseille. I pray to God that the citizens of that town are never in need of his protection.

4. Succeeded (finally—it wasn’t easy) in getting the names of three of the five citizens you requested erased from the List.

5. And last, but certainly not least, regarding that spirited dancer who was run out of Milan for her so-called convictions (for coquetting with French soldiers is more to the point), I’ve succeeded in finding a placement for her with the Opéra-Comique. (She has offered to “repay” me. If only all acts of mercy were so rewarding.)

But my question to you, my friend, is this—how do all these strange and rather pathetic characters find their way to you? Do take care, chérie. Your last letter rather alarmed me.

Père Barras

July 17, Paris
Honoured sister:

I am aware that forty thousand per annum translates into three thousand three hundred and thirty-three francs a month. One must, however, take the cost of administration into account.

I am returning to Dr. Martinet the bills submitted for your treatment since your fall. I have informed him that all expenses incurred in the course of a cure of infertility, however unexpected and unusual, are your responsibility. The Bonaparte Family Trust cannot be held accountable.

Familial regards, Joseph Bonaparte

July 18, La Chaumière
Darling,

You would have loved to see the parade here yesterday: eighty wagons loaded with the finest art of Italy were carted with great éclat to the Louvre. Over each enormous case there was a banner proclaiming the contents—Raphael, Titian, Domenichino, Guerchino. It was enough to make even the most uncultured among us swoon. But the triumph, of course, were the four horses of Saint Mark from Venice.

Naturally, the Directors neglected to give your husband the credit for bringing all this wonderful loot to Paris. Oh, forgive me, I forget myself—for “liberating works of genius.” In Paris, at least, the statue of Apollo may be viewed without his silly fig leaf. If that isn’t liberation, what is?

Your loving friend, Thérèse

August 4, Luxembourg Palace
Chère amie,

Victories in Egypt! One at El-Ramanyeh, another at Chebreis and then, the coup de grâce, a decisive victory over the Mamelouks near Cairo. “The Battle of the Pyramids” we have named it.

I know as heartening as this news is that you will be disappointed over the lack of letters from that land. Unfortunately, the English are high-jacking whatever ships Bonaparte sends in our direction. It has a certain charm, this relationship. We capture their ships, read their mail; they capture our ships, read ours. If only their letters were more interesting.

Regarding more mundane matters, you will be amused to know that General Brune came all the way back to Paris from Milan just to complain about the chicanery of certain of our government officials there, including the “shameless plundering” of your charming sister-in-law Pauline Bonaparte and her accomplice in greed, her husband General Victor Leclerc.

However, before General Brune returned to Milan (stomped back, I should say), I managed to have “a word” with him about the Bodin Company contract. The merest hint of a payback put him in an agreeable disposition. Ah, but these virtuous Republicans are the easiest to bribe.

Père Barras

Note—Forgive me, my dear, but I simply cannot and will not promote Citoyen Lahorie. As a director of this Republic, I must, from time to time, act responsibly. I understand that he was a friend of your first husband and that therefore you wish to help the man, but frankly, he’s an idiot.
^*

August 9.

I walked for ten minutes. I am determined to join Bonaparte in Egypt.

^*
All of these were popular abortive measures. Uterus powder is likely ergot, a black, hard fungus that grows on stalks of rye, an abortive widely used for “bringing on the flowers.” Powder made from the leaves of a savin bush, which was often to be seen in the garden of a village midwife, was commonly used. Tea made from rue was considered just as powerful and more reliable than savin, however.

^*
The Trust would be made up almost in its entirety of the estimated eight million francs Bonaparte is thought to have brought back from Italy.

^*
It wasn’t unusual for a young married woman to go to a boarding school when her husband was away.

^*
On June
20,
Josephine and three acquaintances were on her balcony when it collapsed. Josephine’s injuries were critical. She was immediately wrapped in the skin of a newly slaughtered lamb. For a time it was not known whether she would live, and Hortense was sent for. Josephine’s treatment, which was published in a medical journal, consisted of a punishing regime of enemas and douches.

Dr. Martinet’s initial report stated: “Citoyenne Bonaparte was the most seriously injured of the group. She was given a drink of infusion of arnica to stop the bleeding and an enema, which she evacuated, urinating as well. She was immediately put in a warm bath, after which leeches were applied to the most severely bruised parts of her body, as well as to her haemorrhoids, which were swollen. Warm topical remedies and emollients were put on her bruises (apples cooked in water had a good effect). This was followed by compresses soaked in camphor.”

^*
The command of the Army of Italy passed from Napoleon to General Berthier, Napoleon’s former chief of staff, and then to General Brune. Berthier had favoured the Bodin Company (it is possible he was in on the financial rewards), but General Brune did not and was threatening to cancel the contract.

^*
Lahorie blamed Josephine for Barras’s rejection. Consequently, in 1812, he joined a conspiracy to overthrow Napoleon and was shot for treason.

In which victories are followed by defeat

September 16, 1798—Paris.

I arrived home to devastating news. Buried in a massive stack of calling cards, parcels, letters of congratulation and the usual demands from bill collectors, there was a note from Barras:
Come see me as soon as you arrive. Urgent.

I put my hat back on. “What is it, Maman?” Hortense has become sensitive to my moods.

“Director Barras wishes to see me.” No doubt it had to do with news from the East regarding Bonaparte. Or perhaps Eugène! I didn’t like the word
urgent.

It took some time to get to the palace—the streets were congested, and everywhere there were signs of festivity, preparations for the Republican Year VII celebrations. On Rue Honoré, an enormous banner depicting Bonaparte with palm trees and pyramids in the background had been hung from the bell tower of a church.

“Madame Bonaparte!” Barras’s elderly valet bounded to his feet. “Director Barras has been most anxious for your arrival.” Bruno pulled the big oak doors open.

Barras was playing the violin when I entered. He stopped abruptly when he saw me, his gold-rimmed lorgnon falling, swinging on a pink cord, his eyes tender and sad. “I’m so relieved to see you. You’ve survived the journey? You look thin.” His voice sweet, bell-like.

I embraced him, inhaling his familiar scent, spirit of ambergris. How was I? Fine, fine, I lied. In fact, the journey had been painful, but I didn’t
want to list my aches and pains. “I received your note.” Gingerly, I took a seat, for my hip was inflamed after two days in a jolting carriage. “I confess I’m anxious.”