Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe (41 page)

Fouché just came and went, bringing the news that victory had not been as easy as they had hoped. In the end, force had been required.

Force? “But everything was to be done within the law.”

“It’s law now,” he smirked.

Almost 2:00 in the morning, still raining.

Eugène is home—at last!—soaking wet, but exhilarated by battle, a battle won. “Deputies were running all over the place, holding up their togas like ladies. Their red capes are everywhere—on the bushes, in the trees.”

“And Bonaparte?”

He laughed. “That black stallion very nearly threw him. He looked a fright. His face was covered with blood—”

“Blood!”

“—from scratching that boil,” he assured me.

Dawn.

Bonaparte and Fauvelet didn’t return until four in the morning. I was sitting up in the dark when they came into the bedchamber, Fauvelet carrying a lantern, teasing Bonaparte about “talking foolishness.”

I threw my arms around my husband. “What foolishness?” Examining his face in the dim lantern light, I could see traces of something dark. As Eugène had said, it looked as if Bonaparte had scratched his boil. I would treat it with plantain water in the morning, I thought. I made a mental note to talk to my cook.

Bonaparte threw his jacket over a chair. “I guess I got
a bit
carried away,” he confessed.

“Tell me!”

Fauvelet let out a little giggle. “The General announced to the Five Hundred that he was the God of War and the God of Fortune,” he said, setting the lantern down on a drum stool.

I looked at Bonaparte, amused. “Both?”

“I didn’t say I
was
God,” Bonaparte protested, putting out a foot so that Fauvelet could pull off his boot. “It just sounded as if I did.”

“So tell me, what happened? How did it go?” I crawled back into the bed and pulled the comforters up to my chin, like a child eager to hear a bedtime story. And so I was told:

How Lucien had been the hero of the day—

“Lucien?”

Bonaparte shrugged as if to say, Who would have guessed?

How Lucien had publicly threatened to stab Bonaparte if he were ever a traitor to Liberty—

“He told them he’d stab you?”

“With his dagger drawn,” Fauvelet exclaimed, demonstrating.

How Lucien had thrown down his toga and jumped on it—

“At the Tribunal?” Incredulous.

“Like this.” Fauvelet jumped up and down.

“But he put it back on.” Bonaparte was drinking cognac—something I’d never seen him do.

How fearless Murat had led the charge—

“There was a charge?” Alarmed.

“They were rising up against me!” Bonaparte pulled a flannel nightshirt over his head.

And how, confronted by a pressing crowd, Bonaparte had started to faint.

“Really?” How awful.

Fauvelet rolled his eyes as if to say, Yes,
really.

“I hate that feeling,” Bonaparte said.

And how it had been Lucien who had chased after the fleeing deputies in the dark, and had gathered together a sufficient number to pass a decree establishing a new government.

“So there are no longer directors?”

“Gone,” Fauvelet said, yawning. “Instead, there are three consuls who have full executive—”

“Three
provisional
consuls,” Bonaparte corrected him.

“Yes. General Bonaparte, together with Sieyès and Ducos, who—”

“Good night, Fauvelet.” Bonaparte cut him short, slipping under the covers and burrowing close to me for warmth. I wrapped my arms and legs around him, kissed him. “And oh, don’t forget—” Bonaparte lifted his head just as his secretary was about to shut the door. “Tomorrow we sleep in the palace.”

^*
Thérèse believed that the play was about her.

^*
It’s not known whether Barras ever received this money; it is possible Talleyrand did in fact keep it.

^**
Napoleon was expecting a decree from the Council of the Ancients giving him control of the troops in Paris. This was the first step in the plan.

^*
In his memoirs—published one hundred years later—Barras confessed that he had in fact arranged for assassins to kill Bonaparte, but had called them off at the last minute.

VI
Angel of Mercy

The Age of Fable is over;
the Reign of History has begun.
—Josephine, to Thérèse Tallien

In which I must live in a haunted palace

November 11, 1799.

Hortense and Caroline arrived shortly before the evening meal. “Maman, it was so exciting!” Hortense exclaimed.

“I want to tell it.” Caroline pressed her hands to her heart. “Joachim sent four grenadiers of the guard—”

“Commander Murat, you mean?”

“Yes … Joachim Murat sent four grenadiers to our school to tell me that the Republic had been saved by my brother.” She fell back onto the sofa, as if in a swoon.

“Well, they weren’t sent just to tell you,” Hortense said.

“They were!”

“They came out to the school in the middle of the night?” “Yes, and pounded on the door with the pommels of their swords!” Hortense said.

“No—with their muskets.”

“Madame Campan must have been terrified.” Those of us who had survived the Terror knew only too well the horror of that sound—the pounding on a door in the dead of night.

“We all were,” Caroline exclaimed. “It was so romantic!”

The children are thrilled that we will be moving into the Luxembourg Palace.

“I wonder if it’s haunted,” Hortense said.

“Of course it’s haunted,” Bonaparte told her.

We crowded into our little carriage: Bonaparte and I, Caroline, Hortense, Eugène and Fauvelet. “Will we get a bigger carriage?” I asked. Ours was too small for us and inclined to break down—something that worried me on the isolated road to Malmaison. There were rumoured to be bandits in the quarry.

Bonaparte scowled. “The coaches at the palace seem to have disappeared.
And the
horses.” He glanced at Fauvelet. “Make a note to check the crown jewels.”

“But we’ll have our very own riding arena,” Eugène said.

“Is there a piano?” Hortense asked.

“I’m afraid all we have acquired are debts,” Bonaparte said, drumming his fingers. And a broken country to mend. And a hungry people to feed.

The Gohiers’ suite was very much unchanged. Their bed linens were rumpled, a mug of cold chocolate sat on the windowsill. I felt like an interloper, a thief.

“It will do,” Bonaparte said, looking around. “We’ll live in this suite, I’ll work in the one below.”

The salon was darker than I remembered, sombre and pretentious. Every few years a new director had moved in. The result was a nightmare hodgepodge of styles, all of them pompous. I did not want to live here, but I’d entered a realm in which personal choice was no longer relevant. “Could we redecorate?”

“We won’t be here long,” Bonaparte said.

“No?” I asked, hopeful. Hortense, Caroline and Eugène were racing up and down the marble staircase, yelling to make echoes. I wondered if my children remembered coming to see their father here, during the Terror, when the palace had been used as a prison.

Bonaparte circled the room, his hands clasped behind his back. “As soon as a new constitution is ratified, we’ll move into the Tuileries.”

The
Tuileries?
My heart sank. The Palace of Kings. The palace of beggars was more accurate. That dank, depressing structure had stood empty
for almost a decade, home to vagrants and rats, no doubt—home to restless spirits.

“What about Barras’s suite?” I asked. “Have you looked at it?”

“Haven’t had a chance.”

“Maybe I will,” I said, suddenly anxious.

4:00
P.M.

Bruno leapt to open the door to Barras’s former suite for me. “You’re still here?” I said, shocked to see him.

“Madame, I was born here,” he said with dignity.

I understood. He’d served first the King, then the Revolutionaries, then Director Barras, and now Bonaparte. It didn’t really matter whom. It was the building he was loyal to, the palace itself. “I’m glad to see you, Bruno. I’m going to need your help.”

He opened the wood shutters to let some light in and busied himself building a fire. I sat down in the chair by the window. A red velvet throw had been draped over one side of it, giving off a strong scent of spirit of ambergris. I’d never seen this room so bright, I realized. Barras liked it dark. The afternoon sun sparkled in the tiny crystal beads of the huge candelabra. I bent down to smooth a corner of the carpet. The parrot cage was still there, I noticed, the wire door open. There was a china cup half-filled with cold coffee on the table, beside a stack of journals. A violin case was open on the floor, Barras’s violin laid on the upholstered bench. The music stand had been knocked over. I stood, righted it, put the music sheet back on the stand. Everything seemed familiar, yet strange. I thought I knew Barras so well, but now I wasn’t sure. Was he a Royalist? Was he a murderer? I could not say for sure that he
wasn’t.
All the rules had been broken. Now, anything seemed possible.

My reflection in the gilded bronze mirror startled me. I saw an elegant woman in a classical gown of fine muslin, her short curls veiled. She pulls her red cashmere shawl around her, for warmth. This was the home of her friend, but he no longer lives here. Her own home sits empty and she lives in the rooms of a stranger.

The fire roared, catching. “There,” Bruno said, pleased, jumping back to admire the blaze.

“Is Barras’s study open?” I asked.

“The office or the cabinet? I have the keys to all the rooms, Madame.”

“The cabinet.” Where Barras worked each morning, where he attended to his private correspondence.

I followed Bruno through two rooms to a small door off Barras’s bedchamber. It resembled the door of a confessional. Bruno knocked before inserting the key. “Habit,” he explained with a sheepish grin. He opened the door, lit a lantern and bounded back into position against the wainscotting, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Entering Barras’s cabinet was like entering a cave: dark and remote from the world. I inhaled the scent of old wood. The furnishings were of plain design—which surprised me, for Barras loved opulence. I took in the shelves of books, the hourglass, the compass next to the marble quill holder on the desk, the globe, the oil portrait of a woman—his mother, I suspected, from the set of her eyes. I straightened it. The safe door hung open, the contents emptied. I ran my finger over the desktop. I wanted to look through the drawers, but I felt uneasy with Bruno watching. “Thank you, Bruno,” I said, emerging. “No, don’t lock it,” I added. I would come back.

After midnight.

I don’t know what I was looking for. I don’t know what I expected to find. I knew Barras would be clever enough to empty the drawers and files of anything incriminating. And I was right, so I knew that the three letters I found had been left there intentionally—for Bonaparte’s eyes. I recognized Lazare’s loopy script right away. The letters were addressed to me. Three letters of love.

Now it is the dead of night. Bonaparte is fast asleep. I’ve read the letters, burned them. (Oh, my heart!) Lazare had written them to me at the end of 1795, when Bonaparte had been courting me—and Barras had been urging me to consider marrying him. I loved Lazare against all reason, and so was blind to Bonaparte. But then Lazare had stopped writing—or
so I had thought. Assuming that I’d been forgotten, I gave in to Bonaparte’s attentions.

And now, with a feeling of helpless anger and dismay, I understand. Barras had intentionally withheld Lazare’s letters from me in the hope that I would marry Bonaparte. Bien. I can live with that, for I have come to believe that fate, however convoluted, however indirect, had intended for me to meet and marry Bonaparte.

But what I find truly shattering is the realization of why he’d held onto them. There is only one explanation: as long as Barras had those letters, he had the power to ruin me.

November 21.

Our first evening entertaining at “home”: a long sober game of whist with the Consuls: Bonaparte, Sieyès (dry, taciturn, wrinkled beyond his years) and Ducos (nervously watching Sieyès and Bonaparte, imitating each by turn). After the game, the men took out their snuffboxes and discussed constitutional law. Yawning behind my fan I excused myself and went to the window, “for air.”

It was a beautiful night, clear but cold. It smelled as if it might snow.

“A constitution should be short and obscure,” I heard Bonaparte say.

“Yes, short,” Ducos echoed, clearing his throat.

I heard a duck call outside. On the street side of the metal gates stood a man and three women—Fortunée Hamelin, Minerva and Madame de Crény! The man did a handspring: Captain Charles! I waved, threw them a kiss. Come out, come out, they gestured. I shook my head: I can’t, sorry. (Oh,
so
sorry!) They began to sing an aria from
Don Giovanni.

“The rabble are noisy tonight,” Sieyès observed.

I closed the window, the drapes.

November 22.

“I’m sorry, Madame Bonaparte, Madame Tallien is not receiving.”

“Still? Please, I must see her.”

Thérèse’s butler closed the door.

[Undated]

Every morning Bonaparte begins work at eight, whistling tunelessly. He reappears every few hours, kisses me, exchanges pleasantries, an amusing story, has a quick collation, a coffee or a sip of watered wine (usually a coffee), advises me on my toilette and disappears again, singing.