The Josephine B. Trilogy (70 page)

News: Lazare Hoche is dead.

I excused myself and set out across the courtyard, alone. Eugène was in the riding arena, I knew, taking a lesson. Inside the stables it was dark, cool, smelling of dung. Two horses in box stalls watched me, munching. The stable boy jumped out of a pile of hay. “Signora!”

“Mi dispiace.” I’m sorry. “Non importa.” It doesn’t matter.

I heard someone yelling from inside the arena. I pushed open the heavy door. Eugène was riding a black horse around the circumference, his face glistening, his horse foaming with sweat. The instructor was standing in the centre, yelling, “Keep your leg on him. Thumbs up. Outside rein!”

I took a seat in the stands. Eugène had turned his horse into the centre of the arena and was talking with his instructor. Then he looked up, saw me and grinned. The instructor turned, bowed deeply. “We are finished, Madame la Générale!”

“I am content to watch, Citoyen.” I dreaded breaking the news to Eugène.

Eugène flung himself down beside me. “Did you see that turn on the forehand?” His face was flushed, his hair damp with sweat.

“Quite precise.” I stood. “Let’s walk in the garden.”

He pulled at my arm. “Maman, what is it?”

I scanned the arena. It was empty now. “It’s not good news,” I said, sitting back down. “Your sister is fine, Aunt Désirée, the Marquis,” I assured him, seeing the apprehension in his eyes. “It’s about General Hoche, Eugène.” I clasped my hands. “He is…He passed away.” My chin began to quiver in spite of my resolve.

Eugène stared at me, not comprehending. “Dead, you mean? In battle?” With a hint of a stammer.

“No, in his bed. Of an infection in his lungs.” I found a handkerchief. “Consumption.” My voice was unsteady yet. I took a careful breath. It was inappropriate for
me
to weep.

Eugène leaned forward on his knees, blinking, hitting his riding crop on the bench in front of him. “He died in his
bed
?” He threw down his crop and stood, his face blotched.

“Eugène, I wanted you to—”

His footsteps down the wooden stairs echoed through the arena. I started to rise, to follow him, chase after him, but I stopped myself. He wanted to be alone.

It is late, dark but for a single candle, which is gradually lighting up the room. I am at a marble-topped table in the sitting room, wrapped in a patchwork counterpane. I can hear the hall porter snoring outside our bedchamber door, hear someone singing drunkenly in the courtyard.

The sound of frogs croaking is like a pulse throbbing, a night pulse. I cannot keep my thoughts from wandering, reaching for Lazare. I cannot believe what I have been told: that he is dead, that he died in his bed, robbed of a soldier’s heroic death in battle.

My eyes well up, overflowing. When may I grieve? Where? I dare not. All this evening Bonaparte watched me, taking in my red-rimmed eyes, my sad smile.

A woman’s truths, how secret they must be. Hidden, buried, only to emerge in the night.

I remember the rough surface of the cold stone walls as I climbed the stairs to Lazare’s dank prison cell. I remember the taste of whisky on his tongue, the sputtering sound of a dirty taper burning, the silken texture of his skin. I remember, with wonder—and gratitude—the heat of his love…and my own, kindled from ashes.

I found the Saint Michael medal Lazare gave me, stashed away at the bottom of my box of gems.
La liberté ou la mort,
he’d had etched on the back.
Ou la mort.

Should anything happen to me,
he had written.

He died of galloping consumption, Botot explained again at dinner, his eyes fixed on his crystal glass of wine. At Wetzlar. He was buried there.

Should anything happen
…

Something catches in my throat. It is bitter, foul, it makes me gag. It is a sudden thought: was Lazare murdered?

October 1.

A long talk with Botot this evening. This is what I understand:

The Royalists had changed tactics. Rather than attacking the Republic by force, they decided to try to topple it from within, and to that end succeeded in getting a number of Royalists elected to the Legislative Councils. The goal, of course, was to overthrow the Republic and reinstate a monarchy.

Barras, together with Directors Reubell and La Réveillière, decided to take action. Forming a majority in the Council of the five Directors, they
decided to replace Royalist ministers with loyal Republicans (Lazare as Minister of War was one). Fearing that these changes would provoke a Royalist uprising, Barras persuaded Lazare to bring his troops close to Paris.

But here the story fades. Somehow the plan failed, the troops were discovered and Lazare ended up having to leave Paris under a cloud of suspicion, branded a traitor, an enemy of the Republic.

And then, a few weeks later, Barras made a second attempt to oust the Royalists and this time he succeeded. And then Lazare died.

There is more to this, I fear.

October 3.

Lisette set a tray down beside my bed. I could hear Eugène’s voice in the stairwell, calling for his valet to bring down his riding jacket. I was glad he was going riding; he’d been morose, quiet. “Madame, remember when General Hoche called on you in Paris?” she asked, handing me a mug of frothy hot chocolate. “Just before we left for Italy. It was on your birthday, he brought you roses.”

“I don’t remember roses,” I said, blowing on the steaming chocolate before taking a cautious sip. “Why?” Knowing even as I asked that I was going to regret the question.

“It’s awful, Madame. It makes me want to cry. Everyone’s saying he was murdered!”

October 1, La Chaumière

Darling,

I have just returned from the funeral for Lazare and am overcome with sorrow. The entire nation grieves, stunned by the loss of the Republic’s golden boy. He died accused by his enemies, but the people have judged him a saint—a saint of the Revolution. It was a lovely procession of shepherds wearing cypress crowns, their staffs wrapped in black ribbon.

Lazare’s young wife was there. She looked quite faint, tragic. I suspect she’s with child. Lazare’s father supported her as best he could, but then he himself
was overcome by heart-wrenching sobs, a dreadful keening wail. I weep now even to think of it.

I am haunted by the memory of an evening at my salon. Bonaparte was reading everyone’s palm, and he looked at Lazare’s and predicted that he would die at a young age in his bed. Do you remember that night?

The rumours are vicious, of course. Everyone is convinced Lazare was poisoned—and by Barras, of course. (They blame him of every crime!) It’s terrible, especially considering how Barras himself is so overcome with grief. He spends entire days in a darkened room, refusing to speak.

Tender caresses from Thermidor. And love from the Glories, of course. Will you ever return? Things are so sad here.

Your loving and very dearest friend, Thérèse

Note—I heard you’ve hired Vautier to renovate your house. A brilliant choice!

October 13.

The Austrian delegates dined here tonight. Bonaparte in a surly temper.

[Undated]

Damp today. I’ve ordered the fires lit. I’m in a melancholy mood. How does one set the stage for peace? I arrange cut flowers, ask the housekeeper to have the silver tea service polished and set out on the buffet, check the liqueur decanters, review the day’s menu with the head chef. But despite my best efforts, the fires, the flowers, the succulent food, a gloomy chill pervades. There will be no peace today, I know.

October 15.

“The head of the Austrian delegation wishes to speak with you, Madame.” Lisette opened her eyes wide.

“Comte de Cobenzl? Show him in, please!” One did not keep a man of such importance waiting.

As the Comte de Cobenzl entered, my impulse was to bow, but I refrained. As I am the wife of General Bonaparte, the victor, the Comte
Louis de Cobenzl should, in theory, bow to me. We solved the impasse by bowing at precisely the same moment, and with an equal degree of respect.

“I will not be long, Madame Bonaparte,” he said, refusing my offer of a chair. “I requested a private audience with you because I am gravely concerned about the future of the negotiations. General Bonaparte has been treating us…
rudely,
to be frank. At the least request from us, his temper gives way to violence. No doubt you are aware that he destroyed my prized china tea set.”

The day before, in a fit of temper, Bonaparte had thrown Cobenzl’s tea set to the ground—the tea set the Comte was so proud of, the one that had been given to him personally by Catherine the Great—exclaiming, as he did so, “I’ll break your monarchy like this china!”

“Comte de Cobenzl, please believe me,” I said, “I was dismayed when I—”

The Comte put up his hand. “There is much more at stake than a tea service, Madame. If the General continues in this fashion, I’m afraid Austria will have to withdraw from the negotiations.”

“Comte de Cobenzl—” Words escaped me. If the Austrian negotiators withdrew, there would be war again.

“My question to you is this: Would you speak to the General?”

Speak to Bonaparte? Was such a thing possible?

“We await the result.” The Comte de Cobenzl bowed, I bowed lower, he bowed lower still.

October 16.

“You are not to interfere!” Bonaparte showered spittle in his fury.

“I am not interfering!”

Bonaparte had returned from Udine early, fuming; the negotiations had been broken off. War would be resumed in twenty-four hours, he’d threatened. “How can you say that? Yesterday you met with the Comte de Cobenzl privately. You call that not interfering?”

“Have you been spying on me, Bonaparte?”

“This palace is riddled with spies. We are all of us spied upon. Even the spies are spied upon.”

I turned to face my husband. “The Comte de Cobenzl came to me of his own accord. He was seeking…advice.” Was a direct approach wise? So much was at stake. “He feels you have been rude, Bonaparte, that you do not wish to make the peace.”

Bonaparte laughed. “He’s fortunate to be alive and he complains about niceties. How…how
aristocratic.
Cobenzl acts as if he were at a salon, an afternoon tea. And then he demands Mantua.
Mantua!
Mantua is the key. If I were to let the Austrians have Mantua back, they would control Italy again in a very short time. And he wants me to be
civil
in the face of such a demand?”

“Bonaparte…” I took his hands in mine. It always surprises me how soft his skin is, how fine his bones. I looked into his eyes. How did one persuade such a man? “There is something I must say.”

“I do not hinder you.”

“If you treated Cobenzl civilly, perhaps he would be more likely to accede to your wishes.”

He looked incredulous. “You are suggesting that I be
nice
?”

“Bonaparte, really, you are so charming when you smile. Who could refuse you?”

October 17.

Bonaparte’s carriage pulled into the courtyard quite late, almost midnight. I saw him jump down from the carriage, followed by Eugène and Louis. I opened the window. “Peace is signed,”
^*
Eugène called out, holding a flambeau aloft. “Pack for Paris!”

III
Profiteer

The scourge and leprosy of the services! Impudent thievery!

—
Napoleon, on military suppliers

In which problems await me at home

December 16, 1797—France!

“I can understand what people are saying!” Lisette threw her arms in the air and twirled.

I knew her joy. The innkeeper in her crisp white bonnet had a familiar face. Did I not know her? Even the postillion seemed to have mounted his horse in a way that seemed mysteriously
right.

“Look!” Lisette leapt about the cobblestones. “The sky is French, the mountains are French, the air is French. I bet that horse speaks French.” The old nag turned its head. “See?”

December 17.

“Where did you learn to load a pistol, Madame?” Lisette looked up from mending the train on one of my gowns.

“In Paris, during the Terror. A friend of mine taught me.” A friend now dead, along with so many others. I clicked the chamber shut, slipped on the safety lock. We were travelling with only two mounted escorts; at night, in the inns, I did not feel secure.
^*
I’d sewn my jewels into a little velvet bag, which hung under my gown.

“I love hearing stories about the Revolution, about all the fights and riots. Forgive me, Madame,” she said, seeing my stricken expression.

I handed her the pistol. “Never aim it at a person, even if it’s empty.”

“I know!”

I smiled. “Have I ever told you that you remind me of my daughter?”

“Many times, Madame.”

“Except, of course, that you’re a young woman now. Have you given any thought to marriage, Lisette?” She was nineteen. It was time. It was past time, frankly.

“I prefer to serve you, Madame,” she said, hiding the pistol at the bottom of her mending basket.

“You may marry and continue to serve me.”

“You would permit it, Madame?”
^*
She picked up her mending.

“Do you think I would expect such a sacrifice from you?”

“Other ladies do.” She shrugged. “And anyway, who would want to marry me?”

“You’re lovely!” But without a dowry, true. “I will be happy to provide you with a dowry.”

“Truly?” she asked with an incredulous look.

“On my honour.”

December 19—Lyons.