He began to walk faster, as if we had exhausted the subject. But I warned him that I should tell Julie what he had just admitted.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘That is why I have told you everything so carefully. Yes, tell Mademoiselle Julie, so that she shall know that Joseph will soon be suing for her hand.’
I was horrified. ‘How shameless,’ I thought, and I imagined Etienne sneering, ‘Corsican adventurers!’ ‘May I ask,’ I said coldly, ‘why you are so concerned about your brother’s marriage?’
‘Sh! Don’t shout! You will realise, Mademoiselle Eugenie, that before taking up my command-in-chief in Italy I should be glad to see my family rather better settled. With his experience as politician and political writer, Joseph may forge ahead if he no longer has to work as a subordinate employee. As soon as I have gained my first victories in Italy, of course I shall look after all my family.’ He paused. ‘And – believe me, Mademoiselle, I shall look after them well.’
We had come to the summer-house. ‘Where have you been, General,’Julie asked, ‘with the child all this time? We have been waiting for you and Eugenie.’ But we could see that she and Joseph had forgotten all about us. They were sitting close together on a little bench, though there were plenty of chairs there. Besides, they were holding hands; I suppose they thought we wouldn’t notice it in the dusk.
We all went back then to the house, and the two brothers said they must be going. But at that Etienne spoke up. ‘My mother and I would be very pleased if the Citizen General and Citizen Joseph Buonaparte would stay to supper with us. It is a long time since I had an opportunity of so interesting a talk.’ As he said that he looked quite appealingly at the General; he seemed to be ignoring Joseph.
Julie and I ran up to our room to do our hair. ‘Thank goodness,’ she said, ‘they have made a good impression on Mama and Etienne.’
‘I must tell you,’ I said, ‘that Joseph Buonaparte will soon be suing for your hand. Principally because,’ I added, but I had to stop, my heart was beating so, ‘because,’ I said when I could finish the sentence, ‘because of the dowry!’
‘How can you say such a hateful thing!’ said Julie, with her face flaming. ‘He told me how poor his family are, and of course,’ she added, tying a couple of little black velvet bows in her hair, ‘he could not marry anyone without means, as he has only a small salary and has to help his mother and the children. I think that is very noble of him – Eugenie!’ she exclaimed, breaking off, ‘I won’t have you using my rouge!’
‘Has he told you already that he wants to marry you?’
‘Whatever put that idea into your head? Why, all he talked about, of course, was just things in general, and his young brothers and sisters.’
On our way down to the dining-room, where they were all crowded round our two guests, Julie suddenly put her arm round my shoulder and pressed her face against mine. Her cheek was very hot. ‘I don’t know why,’ she whispered, kissing me, ‘but I am so happy!’ She’s surely in love, I said to myself.
As for me, I was quite calm. But I did have that curious tugging round my heart. ‘Napoleone,’ I thought – ‘a strange name.’ So that’s how you feel when you’re in love. Napoleone!
All that was two months ago. And yesterday I had my first kiss; and yesterday Julie was betrothed. The two events belong together somehow, for while Julie and Joseph were sitting in the summer-house Napoleone and I were standing by the hedge at the bottom of the garden, so as not to disturb those two. Mama has told me always to spend the evenings in the garden with Julie and Joseph, because Julie is a young lady of good family.
Since that first visit the two brothers have been to see us almost every day. It was Etienne’s doing – who could have believed it? Signs and wonders will never cease, and it was he who invited them to come. He can never have enough of his talks with the young General. Poor Napoleone, how terribly they bore him! Etienne is one of those people who value a person according to his success. When I revealed that the two Buonapartes were Corsican refugees, he refused to have anything to do with them, and called them ‘adventurers’. But ever since Joseph showed him the cutting from the December Moniteur in which his brother was gazetted Brigadier General, Etienne has raved over Napoleone.
Napoleone had driven the English out of Toulon. That is how it happened. The English are always meddling with our affairs, and they are indignant at our condemning our King to death, though Napoleone says it is scarcely a century and a half since they did just the same to their own King. And now they, the English, had formed an alliance with the Royalists of Toulon, and had occupied the town. So our troops laid siege to Toulon. Napoleone was ordered there, and in no time he did what his seniors had been trying in vain to do: Toulon was stormed, and the English fled. Then it was that the name Buonaparte appeared for the first time in the Army Orders, and Napoleone was promoted Brigadier General. Etienne, of course, pestered him to tell him the whole story of the victory at Toulon, but Napoleone says there was nothing in it. It was only a matter of a few cannon, and he, Napoleone Buonaparte, knew perfectly well where to put cannon and which way to point them.
After his success at Toulon, Napoleone went to Paris, to try to see Robespierre. Robespierre is the most powerful man in the Committee of Public Safety. That committee is our Government. To get to the great Robespierre he had first to see the lesser Robespierre, the great man’s brother. Robespierre – the real one – thought Napoleone’s plans for a campaign in Italy were excellent; he discussed them with the Minister of War, Carnot, and asked him to entrust Napoleone with the preparations for the campaign. Napoleone says that Carnot falls into a rage whenever Robespierre interferes with his Ministry, because it is no concern of Robespierre’s. But nobody dares to contradict Robespierre, for he has only to sign a warrant and anyone is sent straight to the guillotine. Consequently Carnot received Napoleone with a show of friendliness, and took over the Italian plans from him.
‘First,’ said Carnot, ‘go and inspect our fortresses in the south; I will give your ideas careful attention, Citoyen Général.’ But Napoleone is quite sure that his plans lie pigeon-holed somewhere in the Ministry. Robespierre, however, will soon arrange, Joseph thinks, for Napoleone to be given the supreme command in Italy.
Etienne and all our friends hate that man Robespierre. But they do not say so aloud, it would be too dangerous. It is said that Robespierre has made the members of the Revolutionary Tribunal give him secret reports on the attitude of all the officials in the State service. Even the private life of every single citizen, they say, is watched. Robespierre has declared that every genuine Republican has a duty to live a moral life and to despise luxury. Recently he actually had all the brothels in Paris closed. I asked Etienne whether brothels are a luxury but he said angrily that I mustn’t talk about such things. And no dancing is allowed in the streets any longer, though that was a pleasure everybody enjoyed on public holidays. Etienne has absolutely forbidden us ever to criticise Robespierre in front of the two Buonapartes.
Etienne talks to Napoleone of scarcely anything but the Italian plans. ‘It is our sacred duty,’ says Napoleone, ‘to instil into all the European peoples the ideas of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity. And if necessary we must do it with cannon!’ I always listen to these talks, so as to be with Napoleone, though they weary me terribly. The worst is when Napoleone begins to read the Handbook of Modern Artillery to my brother. That happens sometimes, and Etienne, the stupid, thinks he understands it all.
But when we are alone he never talks about cannon. And we are very often alone together. After supper Julie always says: ‘Don’t you think we ought to take our guests into the garden for a bit, Mama?’ Mama says ‘Go along, children!’ and we four, Joseph and Napoleone and Julie and I, disappear in the direction of the summer-house. But before we get there, Napoleone generally says: ‘Eugenie, what do you say to a race? Let’s see which of us can get first to the hedge!’ Then I lift up my skirt and Julie cries ‘Ready – steady – go!’ T
hen Napoleone and I set off hot-speed for the hedge. While I run to it with my hair flying and my heart beating wildly and a stitch in my side, Joseph and Julie disappear into the summer-house.
Sometimes Napoleone wins the race, and sometimes I do, but then I know that Napoleone lets me. The hedge is just up to my breast. Generally we lean close together against the foliage; I rest my arms on it and look up at the stars, and then Napoleone and I have long talks. Sometimes we talk about The Sorrows of Werther, a novel by an obscure German writer named Goethe, which everybody has at present on the dressing-table. I had to hide the book, because Mama won’t let me read love-stories. But I was disappointed with it. It’s the story, sad beyond belief, of a young man who shoots himself because the young lady whom he loves marries his best friend.
Napoleone is quite enthusiastic about the book. I asked him whether he could imagine himself committing suicide because he was crossed in love. ‘No,’ he replied, laughing, ‘because a certain young lady whom I love won’t be marrying someone else.’ But then he looked sad and gazed earnestly at me, so I hurriedly changed the subject.
But often we just lean against the hedge and look at the quiet meadow beyond. The less we talk, the nearer together we seem. Then I imagine that we can hear the grass and the wild flowers breathing. Now and then a bird sings somewhere in melancholy tones. The moon hangs in the sky like a yellow lantern, and while I look at the slumbering meadow I think: ‘Dear Lord, let this evening last for ever, let me go on for ever leaning against him.’ For although I have read that there are no supernatural powers, and the Government in Paris has set up an altar to Human Reason, I always think ‘Dear Lord’ when I am very sad or very happy.
Yesterday Napoleone suddenly asked, ‘Are you never afraid of your destiny, Eugenie?’ When we are alone with the sleeping meadow, sometimes he uses the familiar tu, although not even betrothed lovers or married people do that nowadays.
‘Afraid of my destiny? No,’ I said, ‘I am not afraid. We don’t know what the future holds in store for us. Why should we be afraid of what we don’t know?’
‘It is a strange thing that most people declare that they do not know their destiny,’ he said. His face was very pale in the moonlight, and he was looking into the distance with wide-open eyes. ‘For myself, I think I do. I know my destiny. My star.’
‘And are you – afraid of it?’ I asked.
He seemed to be reflecting. Then he said quickly, ‘No. I know I shall do great things. I am the sort of man who will build up States and guide their course. I am one of the men who make world history.’
I stared at him, amazed. I had never dreamed that people could think or say such things. Suddenly I began to laugh. At that he shrank back and his face was distorted. He turned quickly to me.’
‘Are you laughing, Eugenie?’ he murmured. ‘Laughing?’
‘Please forgive me,’ I said. ‘It was only because I was afraid of your face, it was so white in the moonlight, and – so aloof. When I’m afraid, I always try – to laugh.’
‘I don’t want to give you a shock, Eugenie,’ he said, tenderly. ‘I can understand your getting frightened. Frightened – of my great destiny.’
We were silent again for a while. Then a thought occurred to me. ‘Well, I too shall make world history, Napoleone!’
He looked at me in astonishment. But I persisted, trying to express my thought. ‘World history consists, after all, of the destinies of all people, doesn’t it? Not only men who sign death warrants or know just where to place cannon and which way to fire them. I am thinking of other people. I mean those who are beheaded or shot at, and in fact all men and women who live and hope and love and die.’
He nodded slowly. ‘Quite right, my Eugenie. But I shall influence all those millions of destinies of which you speak. Do you believe in me, Eugenie? Do you believe in me, whatever happens?’
His face was quite close to mine, so close that I trembled and involuntarily closed my eyes. Then I felt his lips pressed tightly on mine, until suddenly – I don’t know how it happened, it was certainly not what I meant to do – my lips parted.
That night, long after Julie had snuffed out the candle, I could not get to sleep. Then Julie’s voice came out of the dark: ‘Can’t you sleep either, little one?’
‘No. It’s so hot in the room.’
‘I’ve something to tell you,’ Julie whispered. ‘A very great secret; you mustn’t tell anyone. Anyhow, not till to-morrow afternoon. Will you promise?’
‘Yes, I promise,’ I said, wildly excited.
‘To-morrow afternoon Monsieur Joseph Buonaparte is coming to talk to Mama.’
Was that all? ‘To Mama? What about?’
‘Gracious, aren’t you stupid! About us, of course, about him and me. He wants – well, what a child you are! He wants to sue for my hand!’
I sat up in bed. ‘Julie! That means you are betrothed!’
‘Sh! Not so loud! To-morrow afternoon I shall be betrothed. If Mama makes no objection.’
I jumped out of bed and ran across to her, but I bumped into a chair and hurt my toes. I cried out.
‘Sh, Eugenie! You’ll be waking everybody.’ But I had got to her bed. Quickly I snuggled under the warm eiderdown and excitedly shook her shoulder. I could not think how to show her how glad I was.
‘Now you are a bride, a real bride! Has he kissed you already?’
‘You can’t ask that, child. A young lady does not let herself be kissed until her Mama has agreed to the betrothal.’
‘Why,’ I said, ‘he must have done.’
Julie was nearly asleep. ‘Perhaps,’ she murmured.
Then I made my head comfortable on Julie’s shoulder and went to sleep too.
Later
I think I’m tipsy. Just a little tipsy, very nice, very pleasant. Julie has become betrothed to Joseph. Mama sent Etienne down to the cellar for champagne. It’s champagne that Papa bought years and years ago, to be kept for Julie’s betrothal. They are all sitting on the terrace still, discussing where Julie and Joseph shall live. Napoleone has just gone to tell his mother all about it. Mama had invited Madame Letitia Buonaparte and all the children for to-morrow evening. Then we shall get to know Julie’s new family. I do hope Madame Letitia will like me; I hope – no, I mustn’t write it, or it won’t happen! Only pray for it and secretly believe it.
We ought to have champagne often. Champagne tingles on your tongue and tastes sweet, and after the very first glass I couldn’t stop laughing. After my third glass Mama said, ‘Nobody must give the child any more!’ Suppose she knew I had already been kissed!
This morning I had to get up very early, and till now I had no chance to be alone. So as soon as Napoleone went away I ran up to my room, and now I am writing in my book. But my thoughts are running about and bumping into each other, each of them, like so many ants, carrying a little load. Ants drag along pine needles, twigs, or grains of sand; my thoughts each carry a little dream of the future. But they keep dropping them, because I have been drinking champagne and can’t concentrate.
I don’t know why it is, but I had quite forgotten that our Swede, that Monsieur Persson, was going away to-day. Since the Buonapartes have been coming to see us I have not had much time for him. I don’t think he likes Joseph and Napoleone. When I asked him what he thought of our new friends, he only said that he found it difficult to catch what they said, because they spoke so quickly, and besides that their accent was different from ours. That showed me that the Corsican accent is too difficult for him.
Yesterday afternoon he told me that he had packed everything and was going by the mail coach to-day. I determined, of course, to see him off, for I really like his equine face, and besides it is fun going to see the mail coach off. You always see different people there, and sometimes ladies in Paris gowns. But then, of course, I forgot Persson and his preparations, because, after all, I had my first kiss to think about.
Luckily I remembered Persson’s departure the moment I woke up
this morning. I jumped out of bed, put on my shift and my two petticoats, scarcely gave myself time to tidy my hair, and ran down to the dining-room. There I found Persson having his farewell breakfast. Mama and Etienne were hovering round him and doing all they could to make him have a good breakfast.
The poor man has a frightfully long journey ahead of him. First to the Rhine and then through Germany to the Hansa city of Lübeck, and from there by boat to Sweden. I don’t know how many times he has to change coaches to get to Lübeck. Marie had given him a picnic-basket with a couple of bottles of wine and a roast chicken and hard-boiled eggs and cherries.
Etienne and I went with Monsieur Persson to the mail coach. Etienne carried one of the travelling-bags and Persson struggled with a big parcel, the other bag, and the picnic-basket. I begged him to let me carry something, and at last he reluctantly gave me the parcel, saying that it contained something very precious: ‘The most beautiful silk,’ he confided to me, ‘that I have ever seen in all my life. It is silk which your poor papa bought and intended for the Queen at Versailles. But events prevented the Queen—’
‘Yes, really royal silk,’ said Etienne. ‘And in all these years I have never offered that brocade to anyone. Papa always said that it was only suitable for a court dress.’
‘But the ladies in Paris still go about elegantly dressed,’ I objected.
‘The ladies in Paris are no longer ladies!’ Etienne retorted. ‘Besides, they prefer quite transparent muslins. Do you call that elegant? No, heavy brocade is no longer worn in France to-day.’
‘Well,’ said Persson to me, ‘I have ventured to buy the silk. I have been able to save a great part of my salary from Messrs Clary, and I am glad that I have been able to spend it on this material. It will remind me—’ he gulped in his emotion – ‘it will be a reminder of your dead papa and of the firm of Clary.’
I was surprised at Etienne. He cannot sell this heavy brocade in France. It is certainly very valuable, but at present it is quite out of fashion, so that he cannot sell it, and he has worked it off on Persson. Naturally, for a great deal of money; the firm of Clary has certainly made a good profit out of this deal.
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