Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe (8 page)
Dinner Menu
F
OR THE TABLE OF
C
ITOYEN
D
IRECTOR AND
G
ENERAL
B
ARRAS
D
éCADI
, 30 F
LORéAL
12
PEOPLE
1 soup
1 appetizer
6 main dishes
2 roast dishes
6 side-dishes
1 salad
24 dessert dishes
four
Monk small onion soup
Appetizer
Sturgeon broiled on a spit
Main dishes
Confidence man sautéed turbot fillets
Eel tartare
Cucumbers stuffed with marrow
Chicken-breast in a puff pastry shell with Béchamel sauce
John Dory fish in a caper sauce
Partridge fillets in rings
Roast dishes
Local gudgeon
Carp in a court-bouillion
fide-dishes
Snow eggs
White beetroot sautéed with ham
Madeira wine jelly
Orange blossom cream fritters
Marie Antoinette lentils in a cream of concentrated veal broth
Artichoke hearts in a shallot vinaigrette
falad
Shredded celery in a herb-mustard mayonnaise
Twenty-four desserts
“The peasants will be forced to live in the dark,” Thérèse objected.
“The English do it,” Ouvrard observed. “They’ve done it for years.”
“And look at the state of their peasantry.”
“The English are taxed for living,” Tallien said. “For breathing.”
“But they don’t have a deficit,” Deputy Dolivier said.
“And they don’t have every Royalist country in Europe waging war on them for daring to embrace democratic ideals. The fact is,” Barras said, assuming his Director’s tone, “it costs us a great deal to keep our men in arms. Over half our revenues go to the Ministry of War. A standing army of five hundred thousand requires … How much would you guess a day, simply in sacks of wheat? Over six hundred,” he said, not waiting for us to guess.
“Six hundred and fifty,” Ouvrard corrected. “Seven hundred head of cattle, seventy thousand sacks of oats—a
day.
The horses alone require two million bales a day.”
“Spoken as an army supplier,” I said.
“Yes, and proud of it,” Ouvrard said earnestly. “Although I’m afraid that the title would not be considered worthy in most gatherings.”
“Everyone’s quick to accuse army suppliers of corruption,” Barras said, “but the fact is that the French Republic would have collapsed long ago without them.” He made a signal with his hand; the twelve valets moved in unison, filling our glasses with Madeira, taking away the dishes. Then he pulled a deck of cards from out of the side table, threw a sack of coins on the table. “Shall we have a quick game before dessert? How about five hundred to start?” He leaned toward me. “I’ll advance you,” he whispered, tossing out a second sack. “That’s for Madame Bonaparte, lads, but be careful.” He winked at his guests, “She plays to win.”
(I did: fifteen hundred.)
May 21—back home in Paris.
Indisposed again—fever, terrible pain. It was a mistake to go to Grosbois.
I hardly have the strength to hold this quill! I’ve been examined by three doctors—Thérèse’s, Barras’s and my own Dr. Cuce. They stood about my bed scratching their heads. Last night the pain was so violent, I feared I would not see the dawn.
May 24.
The flowers came on suddenly and frightfully. And with such pain! I feared I was going to die. I felt light, as if I could float. I felt myself flying. Lisette covered me with a bed sheet. “I’m sorry about the mess,” I said, closing my eyes.
Later.
“Madame Bonaparte, you are healing, the morbid condition of the uterus has improved, but I regret to inform you that you are not …”
Not with child, alas. “Was I before, Dr. Cuce?”
He scratched his chin. “A mole, perhaps?”
A mole?
[Undated]
From Madame Campan’s book:
A Mole is a Mass generated in the Uterus, which may be mistaken for an Infant in the Womb. Physicians affirm that all Moles are real Conceptions which cannot happen unless there has been some Intercourse between the two Sexes. Nor do they believe that a Woman can become pregnant through Imagination. Hence as often as we meet Moles, we may assure that there has been Co-habitation with Man.
May 28.
I started a letter to Bonaparte, to tell him, but couldn’t.
Headquarters at Milan, 20 Prairial
Every day death leaps around me: is life worth so much fuss? Farewell, Josephine. Stay in Paris, do not write; at least respect my solitude. A thousand knives stab my heart; do not plunge them in deeper. —B.P.
23 Prairial
Josephine, where will you be when you get this letter? If in Paris, my misery is certain! I have nothing left but to die. —B.P.
Late afternoon, around 4:00.
Thérèse saw the distress in my eyes. “What is it?”
I confessed to her my fears. I told her how disturbing Bonaparte’s letters were. “I don’t know what to think. He says things that frighten me. It’s as if he’s in a fever. I’ll get a letter telling me to be careful, to take care of my health, not to come to Italy—and then a few days later I get a letter saying that he’s going to kill himself because I haven’t arrived!”
“Do you think he might be a little …?” She made a twirling motion at her temple.
Tears spilled down my cheeks. “No, of course not.” Although, in fact, that was my deepest fear. “It’s just that he becomes so upset, I fear he might …”
“Step in front of a cannon?”
I nodded, staring down at my hands. They were the hands of an older woman—not my hands, surely. “He wants me with him.” “So go.”
“Thérèse! A battlefield is no place for a woman. And what about Hortense and Eugène?”
“Your Aunt Désirée will look after them.” “But my health—” “Is improving.”
I sat back. “You really think I should?” I felt as if I’d been condemned.
She took my hand. “Remember how it was during the Terror, how we were fighting for something bigger than we were?”
I nodded impatiently. What did that have to do with it?
“It’s not over yet,” she said. “I know, we like to
think
it is. We dance, we play cards, we go to the theatre. I admit it! I’m the first one at a fête and the last one to leave. And why not? We’re the survivors. Death tapped us on the shoulder and we escaped. Life is short, so why not enjoy it? But we’re fooling ourselves. The Republic is faltering. Everything our loved ones died for is at stake. Our beloved Republic is falling and yet we dance on, trying to ignore it.”
“But Thérèse, what does this have to do with whether or not I should go to Italy? Saving the Republic has nothing to do with me,” I said, a feeling of anger rising up in me.
“Would you concede that it might have something to do with your husband?”
Yes, I did believe it possible, that much depended on Bonaparte—
why,
I could not say. In my most secret heart, I believed he could save us—and worse, that we needed to be saved.
Noon, 27 Prairial
My life is a perpetual nightmare. A deathly premonition stops me from breathing. I no longer live. I have lost more than life, more than happiness, more than repose. I am almost without hope. If your illness is dangerous, I warn you, I will leave immediately for Paris. —B.P.
*
Josephine had bad teeth and was in the habit of smiling with her lips closed or behind a fan.
*
Julie Careau and the great actor François Talma had lived in Josephine’s house when previously married.
**
Under the purple: royal life.
*
With the Revolution, the government had seized Church property, as well as the estates of émigrés and arrested aristocrats. From time to time, in order to raise money, the Republic put these properties up for sale—usually at a very good price.
June 19, 1796, early, not yet noon.
Barras was resistant at first. “It’s victory nerves, that’s all,” he insisted.
“Paul, this is serious. It’s more than nerves.” I dared not tell him the full extent of my fears, that Bonaparte might be mad.
“Look, it’s simply unreasonable of him to expect you to join him.”
“Please, listen to me!” Barras looked at me, startled. I’d never raised my voice to him. “If … if I don’t go to Italy,” I said, more calmly this time, “Bonaparte will come here.” This was the one argument that was likely to persuade him, I knew.
“To Paris? He would leave his troops in the middle of a campaign?”
Yes, I nodded. He would. He
will.
“That would get him court-martialled.”
I nodded. Ruined! Shot!
“That’s strange. He didn’t mention any of this in his last letter to me.” He looked over the stacks of paper covering his desk. “Here it is,” he said, holding a letter up and squinting at it. “Just the usual business—his conditions for the armistice agreement with the Pope.”
“Bonaparte is dealing with the Pope?”
Barras smirked. “Getting a little high and mighty, one could say?”
“It’s the Republic he represents that is high and mighty.”
“That’s the problem—that’s what’s getting the Directors so upset. Bonaparte doesn’t represent the Republic, and yet he’s acting as if he does. Ah, here’s the part.” Barras cleared his throat and read out loud. “‘I hate women. I am in despair. My wife does not come—she must have a
lover who is holding her in Paris.’“ Barras looked at me, amused. “So who is this lover?”
“The only man who has been admitted to my bedchamber of late is my doctor, I’m afraid. Fevers are not conducive to romance.”
“I must say, you do look frail. Are you even well enough to travel?”
Early evening—Fontainebleau.
“Oh!” Aunt Désirée cried out when she saw us. “I wasn’t expecting you. Hortense, look at you, a little lady in that bonnet. And you, Eugène, such a handsome lad. You’re growing like a cabbage.”
Hortense jabbed her brother in the ribs. Eugène grabbed her wrist and tried to pin her arm behind her back.
“Children!” I stooped to give my aunt a kiss, glaring at Eugène. “Why don’t you two go out to the stable to make sure the horses are taken care of.”
“My groom will look after your horses,” Aunt Désirée said, tightening the sash of her squirrel-lined dressing gown.
“The children need to be outside,” I whispered as they raced for the door. “It’s a long ride from Saint-Germain.” The walls shook as the front door slammed shut. “And besides, there is something I need to talk to you about, Aunt Désirée—privately.” I settled into the armchair next to the sofa.
My aunt gave me a baleful look over the top of her thick spectacles. “I warn you, Rose, I’m out of salts.”
“Still?” I paused. “I have to go to Milan.” “To Italy? But isn’t that where the fighting is?” “I know, Aunt Désirée, it’s just that—”
“How would you get there? The roads are so perilous. Even between Fontainebleau and Paris, one risks getting robbed. And what about your health? Just look at how pale you are.”
“I’m needed there, Aunt Désirée, my husband—”
“A woman belongs with her
children.
And what about our wedding? The Marquis and I can’t get married without you.” Sniffing.
I was dismayed. My aunt never used to cry, and now it seemed she was
crying all the time. “I have a suggestion to make. Perhaps the priest could marry you and the Marquis before I leave.” “When will that be?”
“Possibly next week,” I said, my voice faint.
“Next week!” my aunt shrieked. “Father Renard was reluctant to marry us next month even.”
“Perhaps I could explain the problem to him.” Pay him a goodly sum. Or promise to.
“But Rose, my gown isn’t finished. It isn’t even begun.”
I heard the children’s voices in the foyer. I put my finger to my lips,
shush!
“The children don’t know?”
“What don’t we know?” Hortense asked, pulling off her hat.
Eugène grinned at his sister. “A mystery,” he hissed.
“You’re going to have to tell them sometime,” Aunt Désirée said angrily, taking up an embroidery hoop and jabbing a needle into the tautly pulled fabric.
Not now! But it seemed I had no choice. “I’m going to be making a trip,” I told them reluctantly.
“Oh?” Hortense looked apprehensive.
“To Milan,” I said, with an apologetic dip of my head.
“Where’s Milan?” Hortense asked Eugène.
“To the war?” Eugène spoke the word with reverence.
“You’re leaving us, Maman?” Hortense’s straw hat fell to the floor and rolled for several feet before falling over with a soft
poof.
She backed out the door.
“Hortense!”
I was breathless when I got to the park. “Hortense!” I stopped, catching my breath, one hand pressed against the pain in my side. It was growing dark, the shadows disappearing.
I heard a sob from behind a stone wall. Hortense looked so small sitting in the dirt. I gathered her in my arms. “Sweetheart.” I stroked her hair. She was shaking. “Oh, my big girl,” I whispered, swallowing hard.
