Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe (31 page)

“I think it’s nice to have family close by,” Madame de Crény said.

Thérèse caught my eye. “Not always,” I confessed.

“Oh?” They looked at me expectantly.

“You know you can always trust a Glory,” Minerva said, sensing my hesitation.

And then I broke down, told all: how Joseph had vowed to break up my marriage; how Bonaparte’s mother called me “the old woman” (and worse!); how Pauline spied on me; how I’d finally come to understand that to Corsicans a wife was nothing, that it was the husband’s family that truly mattered, and that my husband’s love for me and my children had provoked a profoundly jealous hatred in them.

“Mon Dieu, I’ve heard about vendettas, but … I had no idea,” Madame de Crény exclaimed, swinging her feet.

“Im rather surprised by the fuss over your business dealings. I thought your husband’s uncle was an army supplier.”

Fesch? I nodded. As well as Joseph.
And
Lucien.

“And not Pauline and Victor Leclerc?”

I rolled my eyes, well, yes … them too.

“Is it true they were
recalled
from Milan?”

“For filling their pockets, I heard.” “I heard they bought an estate in Italy.”

“And are
looking to buy a property up near Senlis.”

“I thought it was the other brother who was looking for a property near Senlis. What’s his name? Lucien. The young one with the thick spectacles.”

“But didn’t he just buy that big town house on Grand-Rue Vert?” “On a deputy’s salary?”

Fortunée Hamelin whistled. “I
love
this champagne.” “Did you hear about Fortunées adventure, Josephine?” “She walked down the Champs-Élysées—
naked to
her waist.” “They dared me.” Fortunée Hamelin looked smug. “She practically started a riot.”

“I still don’t understand why,” Fortunée said. “It’s not as if people haven’t seen a woman before.”

“You should have read all the articles in the journals.”

“Speaking of journals.” Minerva put down her cards. “Did any of you read that article in
La Révélateur*
Something about the Directors having known for a week about the defeat of our fleet?”

“What defeat?”

“That’s what I wanted to know.”

They turned to me. Tears filled my eyes. Please, no, I didn’t want to be the one to tell them.

November 4.

Rumours that Alexandria has been burned, that Bonaparte is in retreat.

November 16.

Rumours that Bonaparte’s army is faltering, that he’s surrounded.

December 12.

My manservant returned from the market in tears. “General Bonaparte has been killed in Cairo!”

Immediately, I set out for the palace to see Barras. I had resolved not to read the journals, much less to believe them, but this account was impossible to ignore—I
had to
know.

The journey to the palace was a slow one. There were signs of disturbance, more so as I neared the market. Several times my carriage was recognized. One man doffed his hat as if for a funeral procession. I sat back, out of view.

What if Bonaparte
had been
killed?

I burst into tears the moment I saw Barras—in spite of the presence of his guests—for I saw the answer in his eyes. My knees gave way.

As if from a distance I could hear Barras giving out orders for cold cloths and salts. He felt my pulse, pulled back my eyelids. “Please,” I said, struggling to sit up. I felt bile in my throat. A circle of faces was looking down on me, men’s faces.

“Help me get her onto the bed in the next room,” I heard Barras say. He pulled me up. My feet were comically disobedient, my legs like those of a rag doll. Inexplicably, I began to giggle.

“She’ll be all right in a moment,” Barras said. “She’s stronger than she looks.”

I was laid out on the bed, my ties loosened, a comforter pulled over me. I closed my eyes, turned my head. “Tell me,” I said. “Tell me what you know.”

His name meant “Desert Lion,” he’d told his men.

“I didn’t know that,” I said. Bonaparte had dreamt of riding an elephant, of wearing a turban. “Go on.”

Soldiers! he’d
called out.
From these pyramids, forty centuries of history look down upon you!

“That’s beautiful. He had a way of putting things.”

He’d entered Cairo with the Koran in one hand, Thomas Paine’s
The Rights of Man
in the other. Triumphant.

“He had a great sense of theatre,” I said, closing my eyes, imagining his feeling of exultation at such a moment, what it must have been like for him, his soul infused with the spirit of destiny, walking in the footsteps of Alexandre the Great, of Caesar.

He believed himself chosen. I opened my eyes. “Barras, he can’t be dead.”

[Undated]

Every day, rumours—Bonaparte lives, Bonaparte has perished. I grieve, I rejoice, I grieve again. I begin each day with a prayer, and a conviction that Bonaparte will survive, that he will endure, that he will overcome—but by nightfall, doubt and fear have come into my heart like evil demons.

I have been reading through the letters Bonaparte sent me when we first were married. I read his burning words of love and I want to weep. I have not loved him as I should, have not given him my heart. There are so many things I want to tell him—and now I fear it may be too late.

[Undated]

People watch me for clues. “She’s not smiling. He must be dead,” I overheard a market woman say.

December 23.

I’ve not been out for two weeks, unable to face the looks of mourning, of exultation. Everywhere I go, I feel eyes.

January 1, 1799, New Year’s Day.

The bottle of ink in my escritoire was empty. I went upstairs. There were writing supplies in the guest room.

It took an effort to push open the door. I stood for a moment, waited for something to shape itself in the dark. It was light out still, yet with the drapes drawn, no light penetrated. I pulled back the curtains, opened the windows.

What was to become of him? I thought. And what of my son?

A breeze swept into the room, fluttering papers to the floor. The clock under the glass bell struck. Bonaparte had wanted the room made into a second study—but there had been no time, in the end, to even discuss such matters. A desk, I recalled, shelves, and a desk in the corner for his secretary.

Yes, I thought, it will be done. I will get to work now, call in the architects, the furnishers, the drapers—prepare for his return. For he
will
return.

^*
Lancette (lance), laitue (lettuce), rat: a play on the words
l’an sept les tuera.

In which I have enemies everywhere

January 3, 1799.

“It’s the damned ague again,” Barras said from under a mountain of comforters. “A family tradition.” His face, surrounded by cambric, looked like an old woman’s.

I dislodged Toto from the little chair beside Barras’s massive bed, took a seat. It alarmed me to see Barras so weakened.

“It comes, it goes. Don’t look so worried.” He took a sip of the quinine water his chambermaid brought for him, then spat it out. “You could at least put some brandy in it.” She slammed the door behind her.

“My father swore by rum,” I said. The room smelled unpleasantly of parrot.

“And he’s dead.” Barras thumped the side of the mattress. Toto jumped up beside him, sniffed around before curling up beside his master.

“So tell me, is there news?” I always felt anxious when summoned.

“I just want you to be assured that all these rumours of Bonaparte’s defeat are false. We’ve had a report that he has assembled an army of one hundred thousand and is going to head into Syria.”

“That’s wonderful news!” I said, wondering where Syria was. I would look it up on my map when I got home.

“In England they shot cannon from the Tower of London, thinking that he’d been killed. There’s even a play running in London called
Death of Bonaparte,
I’m told. Now they’re going to have to shoot cannon to announce his resurrection.” He laughed. “But there was something in this morning’s
London Morning Chronicle
I thought I should show you.”

“The English paper?”

He nodded, fishing around in a stack of journals on his bedside table. “My secretary’s working on a translation right now. Where are my spectacles? Damn, I can’t find anything any more.”

“It concerns Bonaparte?” I found his spectacles on the side table and handed them to him. Whenever there was news, I assumed it would be bad.

“I wish I could read English.” Barras squinted at the journal, holding it at arm’s length. “I wish I could
see.”

“The name Beauharnais is in there,” I said, looking over his shoulder. Something about Eugène?

“Ah, there’s Botot.”

“You’re not going to like it,” Barras’s secretary warned us, a paper in his hand. He read out loud,
“The publication of the letters confidential to be written—”

“To be written?
Or
written?”

“Written. Excuse me. Yes …
of the letters confidential
written
by Bonaparte and his men to friends and family in France (letters by our navy intercepted) does a little honour to the morality of our cabinet. Such scandal cannot serve to make good our national to ennoble—”

“Wait a minute, slow down, Botot. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Maybe it’s my translation.”
^*

“Go on.” I sat forward on my chair. Something about publishing letters?
“One of these letters confiscated is from Bonaparte to his brother, a song on his wife’s debauchery—”
My
debauchery?

Botot shrugged.
“Another, from young Beauharnais—”
Eugène? “One of the letters is from my son?”

“… the hope expresses that his chère maman is less evil than she was represented.”

“I don’t understand.” Evil? The air in the room was close, the fire blazing.

“The English intend to
publish
these letters?” Barras demanded, his teeth chattering. “But that’s unethical. There are international agreements that apply.”

“Damn the Royalists,” the parrot suddenly squawked.

28 Nivôse, Luxembourg Palace
Chère amie,

We’ve finally obtained copies of the two letters referred to in the
London Morning Chronicle.
I don’t think it wise to send them to you by courier. I will be in this afternoon, if you would care to come by.

Père Barras

January 17, late afternoon.

“You’ll be comforted to know I intend to have them banned,” Barras said, searching through the stacks on his desk. “Are they that bad?”

“Ah, here’s one.” He handed it to me. “It’s a copy of the letter Bonaparte wrote his brother Joseph. But where’s that other one, the one from your son?”

I glanced at the words,
I am undergoing acute domestic distress, for the veil is now entirely rent.

“The one from Eugène will explain.”

Chère Maman,

I have so many things to tell you that I do not know where to begin. For five days Bonaparte has looked very sad, ever since a conversation he had with Junot. From what little I could overhear, it had to do with Captain Charles—that he returned from Italy in your carriage, that he gave you your little dog, even that he is with you now.

You know, Maman, that I do not believe a word of it. I am convinced that all this gossip has been made up by your enemies. I love you no less, no less long to embrace you.

A million kisses, Eugène

“This letter is going to be published in England?” I asked.

“And
the one from Bonaparte to Joseph, apparently. The bastards—the English are totally immoral. We have an unwritten agreement with them to respect private correspondence. Of course, we’ll see what we can do to prevent them from making the letters public. My dear, are you all right?”

I tried to swallow. “I think so.” I felt so exposed, my life on display. I felt mortified—but angry, as well. What had I done to be ashamed of? Yes, Captain Charles gave me Pugdog; yes, he accompanied me on the return from Italy; and
yes,
he is a friend and I enjoy his company—and why not? “Paul, you understand, don’t you, the captain is just a friend.”

“Of course! Is our pretty captain even interested in women? But don’t worry about rumours, darling, no one will know.” He twirled his thumbs, frowning. “I just can’t understand why Junot would go out of his way to upset Bonaparte.”

“I think I know why,” I whispered, remembering Lisette’s words: You will be sorry.

January 24.

The dressmaker arrived at eleven, her three assistants carrying enormous bolts of fabric samples, boxes of laces and ribbons, books of drawings. I selected a particularly lovely creation. “I do not recommend that one,” Henriette said. “Your sister-in-law, Madame Leclerc, has one very like it.” “Pauline Leclerc is one of your clients?”

“And such a curious little thing. Every time we have a fitting—quite often, for she requires a new gown every week—she wants only news of you, Madame.”

“She asks you questions about
me?”

“Indeed, Madame. All about you.”

January 25, afternoon.

My milliner arrived at three. I showed her the sketch of the gown I had chosen, the fabric samples. “Lola, we’ve known each other a long time.” “A
very
long time, Madame.”

“If I asked you a question, would you tell me the truth?”

“Madame, if I didn’t know you better, I would think you had offended me,” she said, her eyes bulging out.

“You must forgive me, I am not myself.” I wasn’t sure how I was going to ask. But I had to know. “Have you made hats for Madame Leclerc?”