Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe (32 page)
“Oh yes, Madame, she has kept my girls quite busy—a new hat each week, sometimes two,” she said, a straw form in her hand.
“Does she ever …
inquire of
me? I am just curious, that’s all.”
“She does like to talk, that one.” Lola wrapped a length of gauze around the crown of the straw form, fashioning a turban in the manner of the East.
“She
says
things about me?” I asked, looking into the glass, adjusting the plume. The hat didn’t suit me.
“Of course, I don’t believe a word of it.” Lola pulled the hat off me. “If I didn’t have my girls to look out for, I would have told her long ago that I wouldn’t be making any more hats for her. She’s fussy and she’s never on time, always keeping me and the girls waiting. And her with
three
lovers.”
“Oh?” It was common knowledge that Pauline was having affairs with Generals Moreau, Macdonald and Beurnonville now that her husband had been posted to Lyons.
“And a valet she gets to lift her out of her bath and carry her to her bed. It’s not a sin because he’s Negro and not really human,
she
says, but still, one can’t help but wonder. Really, Madame, she is making a bad name for the General, may God bless him in his trial. And as for you, what she told my girl Doré was that she has seduced all your lovers, one by one, and asked each one who was better, you or she, and what were your—” She flushed, tongue-tied.
“Go on, Lola. I’m finding this amusing.”
“Your
tricks
is how she puts it.” Lola grinned. Her two front teeth were missing. “You know, Madame—female ways with a man, special things you might do when he’s in a heat, things that make him mad for you. I have a few myself. Drives my Lugger crazy—” I liked to think of Lola driving her crippled husband mad with pleasure. “But
then
she says that your lovers say she’s just as good, that the only difference is experience. Which I don’t believe for even a moment, Madame.”
I wasn’t sure exactly what Lola didn’t believe. “Please inform your girls, Lola, that I have no lovers.”
Lola looked at me with an expression of incredulity. “But Madame, even I have lovers.”
[Undated]
I’ve received three Bodin Company bank notes, but I sent them all directly to Barras to pay off that debt. Others will have to wait. Joseph Bonaparte has cut me off entirely.
February 1.
The Seine flooded. Poor Thérèse—her lovely home is waist-high in mud. Barras has taken her in—Thérèse, the little girl, the nanny and eleven servants. I suspect he’ll find accommodations for them quickly.
February 6.
The Glories met at Thérèse’s (beautiful) new house on Rue de Baby-lone—a “gift” from Barras. After admiring the décor, after debating whether to play commerce, casino or loo, after exchanging news of our children and grandchildren, lovers and spouses, we settled down to what has, of late, become our main topic of conversation—gossip about the Bonaparte clan.
“I finally met the hiccupper,” Madame de Crény announced.
“Elisa Bonaparte?”
“She introduced herself to me as a
femme savante.”
“She’s here in Paris?” I asked, playing a card. “I thought she and her husband were in Marseille.” Sadly, their child had recently died, I knew.
“She left her husband in Marseille and is now living in Paris with her brother Lucien.”
“I hear she’s started a salon.”
“I went. The entire time she reclined on a sofa fanning herself.” Thérèse flicked her scarf in an imitation of a woman putting on airs. “Pauline Leclerc was there, as well—
alone,
I might add.”
“Serves her right. I heard her three lovers discovered each other—”
“—and all agreed to abandon her!”
But the big news was that Joseph had just purchased Mortefontaine, one of the most regal estates in the country.
“I hear he’s pouring millions into it—a lake, an orangery, a theatre.” “Where does the money come from?” “His wife’s dowry?”
I shrugged, pulling in my winnings (eleven francs). Julie’s dowry of 100,000 francs was substantial, true, but it was not enough to buy and renovate an estate like Mortefontaine. It just didn’t add up.
“Every
gentleman requires a country seat, Joseph told me.”
“And every gentlewoman, I should think,” Minerva said, nudging me.
“Poor Josephine. She’s the only Bonaparte without a country estate.”
I rolled my eyes. Poor Josephine indeed.
“I thought you and Bonaparte make an offer on a country château?”
I nodded. “We did, for a place on the Saint-Germain road.” Malmaison—a property I’d fallen madly in love with. “But the offer was refused. And then Bonaparte left for Egypt.” I’d asked a land agent to look into the purchase again, but I’d yet to hear back.
“Now’s the time to buy.”
“Prices aren’t going to go much lower.”
February 8
—
at Aunt Désirée and the Marquis’s small but lovely new house in Saint-Germain.
The Marquis is eighty-five today. “I could go at any time,” he told me,
making an attempt to snap his fingers. Aunt Désirée had dressed him up in his blue velvet smoking jacket.
I smiled. “I think you will live to one hundred.”
“I am content to die now but for one thing.”
I tucked the comforter around his legs and moved his invalid chair closer to the fire. I knew what it was, this “one thing.” He stilled my hand. “Before I die, I must see François,” he said, his little rheumy eyes filling. François, his émigré son.
“Marquis, I’ve tried, but I—”
Can’t,
I started to say, but the words, “I’ll keep trying” came out instead.
11 Ventôse—Croissy.
Chère Madame Bonaparte,
This morning, I spent four hours at Malmaison. If you were as wealthy as is commonly believed, I would tell you only of the charm of the estate—but you require an income property and I am happy to report that Malmaison is just that.
The owner suggested 300,000 francs for the grounds (which she claims General Bonaparte offered her last summer) and an additional 25,000 for the furniture. Add to that 15,000 for the agricultural equipment and about 15,000 in taxes would mean that you would have to pay approximately 360,000 francs. If property had not gone down in value, Malmaison would normally sell for 500,000 francs.
The land has been in the care of a steward for the last thirty years. He told me that there are 387 arpents of grain, vines, woods and open meadows. The park, which is excellent, consists of 75 arpents, with 312 arpents additional for renting. Letting these out for only 30 francs brings in over 9,000 francs, which added to the 3,000 income from the park brings the total to 12,000. This should reassure you. This year alone they made 120 barrels of wine selling at 50 francs each. The twenty-five farm people who live on the grounds are entirely self-sufficient.
The property, which has the advantage of being both practical and pleasant, is one of the nicest I’ve yet seen.
Citoyen Chanorier
March 3.
I’ve instructed Chanorier to make an offer of 325,000 francs for Malmaison—an excellent value, if I get it.
March 4.
Offer accepted! Now all I have to do is come up with the money.
March 7, Paris
Honoured sister,
With respect to the purchase of a country property, I refuse to advance any funds from the Bonaparte Family Trust without direct instruction from my brother. Therefore, if you are to proceed, you will have to do so entirely under your own name.
Familial regards, Joseph Bonaparte
March 9.
Citoyen l’Huillier, the estate steward, has agreed to loan fifteen thousand in exchange for a guarantee on his job.
March 10.
Twenty-two thousand from Ouvrard (thanks to Thérèse, with whom Ouvrard has been “keeping company”) but it’s still not enough.
March 16.
I just found out that Louis Bonaparte (ill apparently) returned to Paris five days ago with Signora Letizia. Why have they not contacted me? Louis will have news of Bonaparte, of Eugène—I am desperate to talk to him.
March 17, late morning.
I’ve invited all the Bonapartes to a dinner party in Signora Letizia’s honour this coming Décadi. My coachman left a few moments ago to deliver invitations. I’m praying this will work.
Shortly after 4:00.
“If one had disturbing news about a friend’s husband, do you think one should tell the friend?” Minerva fanned herself so vigorously the feathers in her hat fluttered.
“It would depend on the nature of the news, I would think,” Madame de Crény said, playing a card.
“Friendship requires honesty, however painful,” Thérèse said.
“Do you have
news
regarding a friend’s husband?” I asked Minerva, picking up my cards.
“Oh, no.”
We played in uncomfortable silence. When the clocks chimed four, I put down my cards. “Minerva, please …” “It’s false. Just a rumour.” “Told to you by …?”
She winced. “Your sister-in-law, Pauline Leclerc.”
“Oh?” I slapped down a card. “You might as well tell me. I’m bound to hear it eventually, and I’d rather hear it from friends.”
“It’s just the usual sort of rumour, you know, that the General has taken a mistress, that kind of thing.”
The General: my
husband.
I looked around the table. There was more to it, I knew. “And?”
“And the thing is …” Madame de Crény stammered.
“He’s apparently told her he will
marry
her …”
“… if she gets pregnant.”
I threw down my cards.
March 19.
The Bonapartes send their regrets—each and every one.
March 24, Easter.
I’ve been three days abed. “Melancholy,” the doctor said, insisting that I be bled twice a day from the foot.
April 9.
This afternoon, shortly after the midday meal, Mimi announced a caller. “Captain Charles?” Returned from Milan!
But before I could even put down my embroidery hoop, he’d come into the room, twirling like a dancer. “Buon giorno, Signora.” He curtsied, holding out his wide Venetian trousers as if he were wearing a skirt.
“If you could bring us some port, Mimi,” I said, laughing, “and something to eat. Are you hungry, Captain?” I removed my embroidery basket from a chair.
“As a bear. You have a new maid?”
“Lisette is no longer with me, Captain.”
“Oh!” He gave me a sly smile. “Might it have something to do with Colonel Junot?”
“That was part of it,” I said, flushing angrily. Had everyone known but me?
“Ah, there’s my monster!” Pugdog appeared at the door. “Have we been good?” the captain asked, stroking the dog’s head. “Been keeping the lurchers away?”
“He’s been sick, in fact.” I motioned to Mimi to put the collations on the table beside me.
“Well, my good fellow,” Captain Charles said, addressing the dog as if it were a man, “you are in the hands of the kindest woman in all of Europe. Many a man would envy you.”
“I regret to say that an international incident has occurred on Pugdog’s account.”
“Oh?” he said, pulling away as the eager dog tried to lick his chin.
I explained to him what had happened, the letters that had been intercepted by the British. I told him what Eugène had said in his letter, some of the things Junot had told Bonaparte.
“But how did Junot know I gave you Pugdog?”
“Lisette must have told him, of course.”
“Ah, so she told Junot, who in turn told your husband.”
“Insinuating to him that you and I are …” I flushed.
“I confess I find it flattering to be accused of cuckolding the great General Bonaparte.” He grinned. “I could go down in history for this.”
How young he was, how ignorant in the ways of the world! “I wish I shared your buoyant humour, Captain, but I fear my husband will demand a divorce.”
“Over the gift of a dog?” he sputtered.
“Please understand, Bonaparte is an exceedingly jealous man. His emotions are volcanic. The least suspicion grows in his imagination until it rules his reason.”
“So, I guess an evening at the Opéra-Comique with your cavaliere servente is out of the question?”
“I go nowhere. I am a prisoner of suspicion. Pauline Leclerc is now my neighbour and she reports to her brothers every move I make. No doubt they will soon be informed of your call. Frankly, if I don’t get out of Paris, I’ll go mad. I’ve been looking into purchasing a country property on the Saint-Germain road, but despair of even raising the down payment.”
“This may help.” Captain Charles withdrew a fat packet from his inside pocket. He twirled it in the air and caught it, presenting it to me formally. “We did rather well on the last delivery.”
I felt its substantial weight.
Fifty
thousand livres, he said.
April 21.
I’ve signed. Malmaison is mine.
*
The article in the
London Morning Chronicle
read: “It is not very creditable … that the private letters … which were intercepted, should be published. It derogates from the character of a nation to descend to such gossiping. One of these letters is from Bonaparte to his brother, complaining of the profligacy of his wife; another from young Beauharnais, expressing his hopes that his dear Mama is not so wicked as she is represented! Such are the precious secrets which, to breed mischief in private families, is to be published in French and English.”
April 23, 1799—Malmaison!
It is late afternoon. I’m writing these words at my little desk in the boudoir of my country château. A spirit of rebelliousness has come over me. I’ve not dressed my hair, not painted my face, I’m wearing old “rags”—a cosy déshabillé. A feeling of peace fills me as I look out over the hills, my four hundred acres of woodland and fields dotted with grazing sheep, cows, a few horses. A bull with a ring through its nose is lowing plaintively next to the cowshed. This morning I’ll ride the bay mare over every dell and glen, and in the afternoon the gardener and I will lay out an herb garden.
