Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe (7 page)

I nodded. “And then I tried a remedy my Aunt Désirée sent me, along with her special prayer. And then another my scullery maid swore on the head of Brutus would curb a morbid condition.”

“And nothing helped?”

I shook my head. Something was wrong.

April 21.

An amusing caller this afternoon—he helped chase away the vapours.

“Captain Charles.” He introduced himself with a theatrical bow. He is young, in his early twenties I would guess, with an alert pixie look. A pretty man, exceptionally well made and with good features, excellent teeth. His thick black hair was pulled back into a braid. His sky blue hussar uniform brought out the extraordinary colour of his eyes—a light aquamarine blue. (Who
is
it he reminds me of?) “I’ve just arrived from Marseille,” he explained, “where I was entrusted with a letter for you.” As if by magic, he pulled a document from behind the marble bust of Socrates.

I smiled behind my fan.
^*
A trickster!

The letter was in a woman’s hand, the script ill-formed, like that of a child. “It’s from General Bonaparte’s mother?”
My son has told me of his happy marriage, and henceforth you have my esteem and approval.
“How kind of her to write,” I said, suspecting, however, that Bonaparte had dictated her letter as well.

“Yes, the General’s mother is so very kind,” he echoed, but with a curious long-suffering look that made me wonder if he meant the opposite.

I heard the businesslike clicking of my pug dog’s nails on the parquet floor. Fortuné entered the room with the air of a master. “What a charming little dog!” Captain Charles stooped down, holding out his hand.

Charming?
Most people consider my surly pug ugly. “I beg you to be cautious, Captain. My dog has been known to bite.”

Fortuné approached the captain’s hand and sniffed it. The captain picked Fortuné up and, with a playful growling sound, rubbed his face in Fortuné’s fur. “He’s never allowed a stranger to touch him,” I said, astonished as much by Fortuné’s response as by the captain’s.

April 27.

“My protégé has done it!” Barras slid off his horse. I came to the garden gate, wiping my hands on my apron. He stepped over the little fence and folded me in his arms, twirling me. “I told them he could do it, but this—this is a miracle.” He was in his directorial robes still; one end of the scarlet cape caught on a rosebush.

“Paul, wait.” I disentangled him from the thorn. My scullery maid stood frozen in the process of hanging a carpet over the stone wall, her head craned over her shoulder.

“It’s unbelievable. Even I never expected …!” He was short of breath from such a show of youthful vigour, and dangerously flushed.

“Now, Père Barras,” I said, motioning him toward the garden bench, “perhaps I could persuade you to take a seat? And then—at your leisure! I wouldn’t want to rush you!—if you could tell me, what is this miracle?” I
removed my apron and used it to brush off the stone bench. “And which protégé?” For Barras had many.

He paced back and forth on the narrow path, kicking up stones. “Your husband. Who else?”

“Bonaparte?” I sat back, tilting my straw hat so that it blocked out the sun in my eyes.

Barras clapped his hands. “He’s had a victory!”

I smiled, incredulous.
Already?

“Yes—at Montenotte.” He waved his hands in the air as if deranged. “And with that starved, pathetic little Army of Italy that the Directors were so reluctant to grant him.” Pacing again, flinging his cape over his shoulder. “Haven’t I always said I have an eye for talent? I told them he could do it. And now they’ll have to admit that I was right.
Ha!”

April 29.

Another victory! This one at Millesimo. I’ve pinned a map to the wall in the study and have tagged it with flagged pins, just as Bonaparte did when planning his campaign.

April 30.

And yet another at Dego! “I can’t take all this celebrating!” Barras groaned, holding his aching head.

17 Floréal, Luxembourg Palace
My friend,

Please forgive this letter—I’m tied up in meetings with the Directors all day. I wanted you to be the first to know: your husband has had four more victories, and in only four days! Twenty-one Austrian flags captured! Im ordering a fire-rocket show over the river—hang the expense. At this rate, Bonaparte will be opening the Pope’s treasure chest soon.

I advise you not to grant any interviews to journalists, who will be pressing, I warn you. All information must come from the Directory.

Are you unwell? Thérèse mentioned that you’ve been in bed with a fever. This news will cure, I’m sure. Gather your strength—there will be ceremonies on end.

Père Barras

Note—I’m negotiating to buy Grosbois. Imagine, the previous residents were the royal family. With luck and a little persuasion (of the gold variety), the royal estate will be mine for a song. It would take millions to make it habitable again, however.

May 4.

Fever, pain again, quite sharp this morning. Dr.
Cucé
coming soon.
3
:00 P
.M.

Dr.
Cucé
actually bowed before me. “Madame Bonaparte!” he exclaimed, pronouncing it “Bonne à Pare Té.” “All of Paris is delirious! Four more victories and in only four days. My wife was beside herself when I informed her that my honoured patient is Our Lady of Victories. And when she learned that I would be coming to attend to your health today, she practically fainted dead away. If I may be so bold, might you have a small token, something the Hero of Italy has touched? A handkerchief would be excellent, but better—perhaps one of General Bonne à Part Té’s hairs? I’d happily waive my fee. No! I insist, don’t get up. I’ll look myself. In this drawer? This brush?” I nodded, too fatigued to protest and chagrined that the brush had not been cleaned. “Ah, oui!” the doctor exclaimed, extracting a long, dark hair and holding it to the light. He turned to me, his eyes gleaming. “For my wife, of course. You know how women are?”

May 5.

Confined to bed still. Thérèse was just here with herbals and good cheer. She showed me an account in the journal
Ami des Lois.
Apparently, someone had sent in verses written in my honour—unsigned, however.

“But I think I know who wrote them,” she said. “Wide-Awake.”

Captain Charles? (Thérèse has dubbed the amusing trickster Wide-Awake because he’s always so bright.) “Don’t be silly, Thérèse,” I said, pulling the coverlet under my chin. “He’s a decade my junior.” And in any case, I suspected that the pretty captain might be the type of man who only coquetted with women—nothing more.

“Young men adore you. Look at Bonaparte—he’s six years younger than you. And what about Lazare? How many years younger is he?”

“Five,” I said, blushing.

[Undated]

Slowly, I begin to get better. I detest being sick.

May 6.

It was late morning—I’d just had a bath—when I was informed that there were two men downstairs wishing to see me. I considered telling them I wasn’t receiving, for I’m not yet fully recovered. “I think one might be your husband’s brother,” Lisette told me.

Bonaparte’s older brother Giuseppe tipped his bicorne hat and bowed from the waist. “I’m called Joseph now,” he informed me, displaying the tips of his even teeth. “Charmed to meet you at last.” He is both taller and older than Bonaparte, a soft-spoken man with an indolent look. He was expensively if curiously turned out in a yellow tailcoat and matching knee breeches, a little cut-and-thrust sabre covered with gems dangling from his hip. Colonel Junot, one of Bonaparte’s aides, stood beside him, cracking his knuckles.

“What a surprise!” I greeted my brother-in-law. “I can’t tell you the pleasure this gives me,” I said again, aware that I was exclaiming too much. Should I address Bonaparte’s brother by his Christian name? Should I offer my condolences on his wife’s being delivered of a stillborn? What were the customs in Corsica?

Joseph pulled my hand to his lips and kissed it theatrically with his eyes closed, as if overwhelmed with feeling. I waited for him to finish. “My brother desires me to tell you of his overwhelming love,” he said.

“Bonaparte has often told me of his love for
you,”
I answered, wondering how I might dry his spittle from my hand. I motioned to Lisette to serve cordials, swiping my hand against my skirt and through the air as I did so, as if I were an exuberant sort of woman. “When did you arrive in Paris? I long for news of Bonaparte. Four victories in four days—it is impossible to imagine!”

“General Bonaparte rode five horses to death,” Colonel Junot said, cracking his knuckles again.

Mon Dieu, I thought. “Your journey, how was it?” I asked, my voice thin.

“We came the long way, by sea,” Joseph said. “But you will be happy to know, kind sister, that the return shouldn’t take longer than one week now that the passage over the Alps has been secured by treaty. Comfortable lodgings have been prepared for you.”

Lodgings? I closed my fan. I didn’t understand.

“You are to join my brother in Italy, kind sister.”

I pulled my train to one side and sat down on the chair next to the harp. “Forgive me, but I’m not sure if I am able to—” Would it be improper to inform him of my interesting condition?

“You do not understand, kind sister,” Joseph said softly, the muscles in his jaw twitching. “My brother, the General, he—”

“The General must not be disobeyed,” Junot said, twisting his fingers but failing, this time, to crack them.

They left soon after. I’ve ordered my coach-man to harness the horses—I must talk to Barras.

5:00
P.M.,
or shortly after.

Barras frowned. “But that’s impossible. The Directors must first give their consent.”

“They seem to be unaware of this.”

“The fact is, the Directors wouldn’t permit you to go, we wouldn’t grant you a passport. It’s simply not safe yet. And besides—” He propped his chin in the palm of one hand, regarding me with his puppy-dog eyes.
“I doubt that it would be in our best interest, frankly. You’d distract the Liberator of Italy from his military duties.” He made a lecherous grin.

“So the Directors wouldn’t allow me to go to Italy?”

He shook his head, the feather in his cap bobbing.

I left shortly after, but not until I’d promised Barras I would attend the first weekend gathering at his new country château. “It will be wonderfully restful,” he promised me.

May 19 — Grosbois!

I am sitting in a chair that was likely sat in by Louis XIV, the Sun King. I am writing at a desk where treaties have been drafted, staying in a château where the great men of history have slept.

I am, frankly, stunned by the magnitude of Grosbois, now Barras’s country estate.
This
is a castle.

“What it is, is a headache,” Barras said, pointing out all the repairs that are needed to the roof, the foundation, the windows. For it has fallen, to be sure, into neglect. It took two manservants eight full days just to capture and kill the vermin, he told us. (
All
the vermin.)

We are a small party: Thérèse and Tallien (recently reconciled but already bickering, alas), Julie and Talma
^*
(also together again), a Deputy Dolivier (who is also a banker), Fortunée Hamelin (thankfully, her pompous husband stayed at home), Ouvrard and his wife, Lucile Beaucarnot, a singer with the Opéra (Barras’s current favourite) and her comely young brother. They are all out walking now, in search of views. I did not feel robust, so I declined.

In any case, it was an excuse to enjoy a short but delicious sleep under silk sheets—under the purple,
^**
Aunt Désirée would say. Soon I’ll ring for Lisette and begin dressing for dinner. The water in the basin has been scented with rose petals; a crystal bottle of the finest claret has been placed on the table in front of a flower-filled fireplace. I can smell bread baking.

Three cooks are at work preparing what will no doubt be yet another of Barras’s sumptuous feasts. (The menu is before me now.) Barras has arranged for a string ensemble to play as we dine. And then after, sated no doubt, we will retire to a golden salon where Talma will read, I will play the harp while Lucile Beaucarnot sings and—eventually, inevitably!—Thérèse will have us aching with laughter over her hilarious imitations. “And
then
the game room,” Barras warned us with a wicked grin, flinging his scarlet cape over his shoulder. He is clearly happy in this role, the grand master, orchestrating our pleasures. I am only too willing to oblige.

Late (I’m not sure of the time).

We gathered for dinner at five in full dress. (My new cream-coloured muslin gown embroidered with gold thread was perfect for the occasion.) “May I have the honour?” Barras offered me his arm. We led the small procession into the ancient dining room.

“A fresco by Abraham Bosse?” Thérèse inquired. The walls were painted with a medieval scene.

Barras shrugged. “I just live here.”

“How old
is
this place?” Ouvrard said, examining the massive fireplace that dominated one end of the room. He is a tall man, young (in his mid-twenties), exceptionally well-made. The wealthiest man in the French Republic, it is said.

“It has been a royal domain since the thirteenth century. Le Monsieur was the last resident,” Barras said. Le Monsieur, the Pretender, the brother of King Louis XVI—and, according to Royalists, King. “We walk in the footsteps of history.”

“You
walk,” I corrected him.

We were seated, we ate, each attended by a silent valet. We drank, we got noisy: I took in the news. The deficit was a concern: two hundred and fifty million. The government was going to sell a number of National Properties in an effort to raise money.
^*
The Directors were considering introducing new taxes: a patents tax, a stamp duty, land tax. There was talk of a tax on doors and windows, which led to a heated debate.