The Josephine B. Trilogy (47 page)

Madame Campan greeted me with elegant simplicity in the foyer. “Please, call me Henriette.” She is a plain woman with heavy features. She was wearing a simple black dress, severely cut. Mourning, I wondered? For her sister, the Queen, the Boy? I had heard stories of what she’d been through, her own narrow escapes from death.

She invited me into her office. I was surprised to see a framed copy of the Rights of Man on the wall above her desk. Noting my expression, she slyly turned it over to reveal a portrait of the Queen.

“Comtesse de Montmorin has told me of the heroic efforts you made to save her husband,” Madame Campan said, taking a seat beside me.

“Would that I could have saved him from death.” And others. “I was grieved to learn of your sister-in-law.” I remembered Madame Augié as a sweet-tempered, somewhat distracted woman, always trying to keep track of her three active young daughters.

Madame Campan offered me a cup of weak tea in fine china, slightly cracked. “I tell the girls their mother died in her sleep.” Her cup began to rattle in its saucer. Quickly she put it down. “I am mother to them all now. An invalid husband, a son, three nieces to look after as well as a school for one hundred girls.” She took up her cup again, took a sip. “I don’t have time to mourn.”

She outlined the school’s program: the girls would be given a classical education with special attention to art (Jean-Baptiste Isabey, a portrait painter I admire, will be teaching there) and history. She glanced at the Queen’s portrait. Although hers was a well-to-do establishment, she assured me the girls would not be indulged—they would be taught to
cook and to clean up after themselves. “And, as well, in spite of the fashion now,
my
girls will be taught good manners and the art of conversation.”

I heard a child shriek. I looked out the window to see Hortense wildly chasing both Eugène and Adèle across the lawn. Manners? Bonne chance, I thought, smiling. “Hortense has a cousin, Émilie—the daughter of an émigré,” I said. “Her family is ruined, now, of course. She’s in need of education; I’d like to provide for her, but—”

Madame Campan agreed to take both Hortense and Émilie, charging only for Hortense. As well she offered the use of second-hand uniforms. “Adèle speaks so often of your daughter, I regard her as one of the family. I must beg your forgiveness for charging at all.”

September 6.

I had a meeting scheduled with Barras at his house in Chaillot but the afternoon proved to be too hectic. He’d just come in from a hunt and his excited spaniels were running up and down the halls barking at Toto, the minature greyhound. There were two men waiting in the foyer and a courier with an urgent message to respond to. “Come back at six,” he suggested. “It will be quieter.” I gave him a letter to forward on to Lazare (none for me again, alas) and left.

In the evening, however, it was not much different: messengers, men waiting. Barras told them all to go away. “If it isn’t the Jacobins, it’s the Royalists,” he cursed. “We put down one, only to be attacked by the other.”

“You’re anticipating violence?” I’d noticed an increase in the number of National Guardsmen posted near the Assembly. Now, too, one had to apply for a special passport even to go into that neighbourhood.

“I dare say the worst is yet to come.”

“Who is behind it?”

“Sometimes I think it’s Royalists disguised as Jacobins. At other times, Jacobins disguised as Royalists. It’s the damndest thing.”

“Why do you smile?”

“The fact is, who cares? The people are exhausted. How many turned
out for this last election? One in thirty? But announce the results, and the rocks come flying.”

After supper he got around to the subject of Buonaparte.

“I haven’t seen him lately,” I said. “Not at any of the salons, not even at the theatre.”

“I daresay he’s been busy. I got him a job in the topographic department, making maps. Strategic stuff—his passion. A curious enthusiasm.”

“Yet you respect him.”

“I just wish I could trust him. He’s impoverished, with a huge family to support. One wonders what he might do for money. And certainly the Royalists have plenty to throw around. If Buonaparte went over to them…”

“It’s hard to imagine. If anything, he is a bit of a Jacobin.”

“Yes—he’s got the rhetoric.”

“You doubt his sincerity?”

Barras shrugged. “There is nothing more dangerous—or perhaps the word unpredictable is more accurate—than a revolutionary in want of a fortune.”

September 12—Fontainebleau.

I’ve been two days in Fontainebleau, without the children—already Eugène and Hortense are involved in school activities—yet I spent the entire time talking about them. Aunt Désirée and the Marquis were charmed by my reports of what Hortense’s teachers were saying, how she is doted on by Madame Campan (“La Petite Bonne,” she has been named). “She loves school,” I told them. “I don’t think I’ll ever get her to leave.” I’ve become a little jealous, I confess; Hortense speaks reverently of Madame Campan.

We had a good visit, without Aunt Désirée’s customary lectures on the sins of idleness, revels and reading romances. But as I was preparing to leave, she came to my door. I knew by her manner that there was something she wanted to say. Finally, with some hesitation, she confessed she was concerned about rumours she’d heard about Madame Tallien. I assured her Thérèse was an angel, a friend in every way.

“And you’re not having anything to do with these criminals who are running the government now, I hope.”

“Criminals?”

“Deputy Barra…Bassar…You know who I mean.”

Barras, she meant. I kept quiet. I did not have the heart to tell her that it was “this criminal” who was paying for Hortense and Eugène’s education.

September 15, 1795—Hôtel de Croisoeuil, Croissy

Dear Citoyenne Madame Beauharnais,

My mother has asked me to respond to your letter, as she is not well. She regrets that she will not be able to come see you. She asked me to congratulate you on acquiring the Talma residence, but also to express her sorrow that you will be giving up the château at Croissy. Do you plan to move your cow? We hope to be seeing you soon. Mother is in need of diversion.

Citoyenne Madame Lucie Hosten de Croisoeuil

Note—Maman asked me to tell you that she recommends Citoyen Callyot, an excellent cook who can make créole dishes. (I recommend him too!)

September 18—Croissy.

A rainy, melancholy weekend at Croissy, sorting and packing. And going twice daily to visit Aimée.

She is much weakened. It is distressing to see her confined to bed, a situation she does not take to happily. “If I want so much as a dish of tea, I have to ask my daughter for it,” she complained. “Fortunately Lucie is still under the impression that I have some authority over her, but soon, no doubt…”

“I’d like to meet the person who can succeed in dominating you, Aimée.”

She cursed lustily. There is life in her yet.

September 23.

The New Year, the new constitution proclaimed. Fireworks late into the night. Thérèse and I watched the display from my garden—my garden! I
am exhausted from the move, but happy. I love my new home. I call it Chantereine.

September 25.

I worked all day in the garden. Fortuné sniffed every mound of dirt, barked at every bug. Lannoy has begun making drapes for the bedroom (blue nankeen with red-and-yellow crests). The drawing room looks like a seamstress’s studio, the floor covered over with scraps. I am having six wooden chairs and a small couch covered. I purchased a Renaud harp (only three strings missing) and a marble bust of Socrates at a second-hand shop. Little by little, my home begins to come together. The effect will be simple, but elegant (I hope).

I’ve hired a cook, Callyot, a Negro from Sainte-Lucie who makes créole dishes as well as more traditional fare. (He was recommended to me by Aimée.)

Agathe ran off with a fowler from the Midi but quickly saw the error of her ways (he stank of chicken) and returned, not with child we hope.

Gontier is staying on, dear old soul. Fortunately—for he’s the only one who can coax milk from Cleopatra, my cow.

Now all I need is a coachman and a gardener. I am hoping we can manage on that—for a time. Funds are tight, even with Barras’s generous contributions.

September 26.

A hot day, but a breeze was cooling. I worked in my garden again. Mosquitoes hovered, dragonflies circled. Now and again I heard popping noises and a faint ringing sound—a tocsin, perhaps? The ferment of Paris seems so very far away…

In which we are at war again

Monday, September 28, 1795.

It is so peaceful at Chantereine I was shocked to learn that there had been a riot at the Assembly yesterday. Several hundred people were killed.

“Several
hundred?
”

“Even the Jacobins are beginning to think that only a monarchy can save us.” Barras’s sword clanked against the fireplace. He had just come from the Military School, where he’d been training a group of men—“My private fighting force, my ‘Sacred Battalion.’”

“Not the National Guard?”

“Too civilized,” he said. “Upstanding citizens, men of property. How many have ever killed a man? In a conflict, how many will bolt? Half, I predict. They’re good for a parade, but not much else. No—I need seasoned killers, men with the smell of blood on their hands.”

“And where does one find ‘seasoned’ killers?”

“In the prisons, of course—thugs, murderers, the occasional terrorist.” He accepted my offer of another brandy. “I’ve got fifteen hundred of them already. I’ve virtually emptied the prisons.”

“No—”

“
My
men,” he grinned.

I remembered something Thérèse had once said:
Barras prefers his men coarse, his ladies refined.

“And the more the merrier, thank you,” Barras said, as if reading my thoughts. He pulled out his timepiece. He must go. But first there was something he wanted to ask: Would I seek out Citoyen Buonaparte? “There’s a
rumour he’s been in contact with the Royalists. Whose side is he on? I must know. Things are heating up—”

“But he’s busy, you said—with this business of maps.”

“You women have your ways…Invite him to your home. Surely this is not a mystery to you.”

The project struck me as distasteful.

“Consider the fate of the Republic,” Barras insisted, “your
children’s
future.”

October 4.

Citoyen Buonaparte was better clothed than I was accustomed to seeing him, dressed in a new blue uniform. Even so, he looked sickly, his skin sallow, his boots huge on his spindly legs.

I invited him into the garden. I asked Agathe to bring us café au lait. “Made with coffee beans from Martinico,” I told him, “and milk from my cow.”

He accepted, although he was in a hurry, he said. He could not stay for crêpes. He has been toiling day and night—on a plan to liberate Italy from the Austrians, he said.

I smiled. “You say this in all seriousness.”

“One need only believe.”

“Is it that simple?” He did not answer. He was absorbed in an examination of the sundial. “You do not credit destiny?” I prompted him.

He turned to me abruptly. “One can become accustomed to appeasing destiny rather than controlling it.” He had a strange way of putting things—rather in the manner of proverbs.

“I believe I am of the first party, Citoyen Buonaparte.” Although I wasn’t sure what he meant.

“
Brigadier-General
Buonaparte,” he corrected me.

“Forgive me, I thought—”

“Actually…” He smiled. He is almost charming when he smiles. “You may call me Emperor.”

“Emperor Buonaparte?” I bowed my head, amused.

He stared at me, his eyes grey, cold but inflamed, unsettling. “I mystify you,” he said. “That is understandable. But what I don’t understand
is why you induced me to call. I confess I have developed something of an attachment for you. Nevertheless, I am under the impression that this feeling is not, at this time, reciprocated.”

I stooped to pick a rose. A thorn pricked my finger. Tears came to my eyes, an embarrassing weakness.

“Barras has something to do with this,” he persisted.

I turned to him, angry for being so bluntly challenged. “It is clear you favour directness, General Buonaparte. Very well then, yes, it was Deputy Barras.”

“And how much did he pay you?” He put on his hat.

“Don’t go—”

“I do have pride, Citoyenne.” And was gone.

I set out for Barras’s in a nervous condition. I was expected—to review social plans, financial arrangements…I had an agenda of my own, however. I wasn’t going to do his bidding any longer.

Barras burst into laughter when I told him about my exchange with General Buonaparte.

“I regret I do not see the humour,” I said.

“Rose—you are so charming in this mood.”

I stood up. “You are not taking my position seriously.”

He put his hand on my arm. “Sit, relax. You can’t leave now. I asked the cook to make meringues.”

“I do not care for dessert.” Sitting nonetheless.

“Very well, I will eat your share. Your disposition is sweet enough. I, no doubt, could use a little douceur. Ah, there, you see? I knew I could coax a smile. But please, my friend, accept my apologies. I have caused you distress. I regret to tell you that there have been no letters for you from Lazare. Soldiers are so cruel. But tell me about your children—do they like their schools? By the way, that créole banker you introduced me to has proved to be a
most
profitable contact, did I tell you?”

In short, Barras made himself entirely agreeable. I softened and we talked: of his most recent romantic conquest, the tragedy by Corneille opening at the Comédie-Française in two days, his rabbits.

It was as I was finishing my second meringue that a messenger came.

“Do you recall where the convent of Filles de Saint-Thomas is?” Barras asked, squinting to make out the writing.