They walked through the magnificent stone archway leading to the front portico and toward the marble stairway of an immense entranceway. Francesca’s ragged black dress and straw bonnet made her shrink back inside herself. She had lived in Ancona all her life, yet this was the closest she had ever come to this edifice. If not for the French invasion, she would probably have died before seeing its interior.
The vast marble expanse of the entrance hall made her gasp. Towering naked statues leaned in seductive poses against black marble columns. A stunning, ornate ceiling mural led the eye inexorably upward to a scene of shockingly half-draped maidens, breasts bare, being chased through sunlit clouds by nude satyrs and dimpled cherubs.
Francesca and Daniel both ducked modestly at the same time. She felt a maternal throb of feeling for the boy. “We don’t have to look, do we?” she whispered.
“No, we don’t,” he said, the tips of his ears glowing red.
Daniel said something in French to a guard stationed at the end of the foyer where two doors opened left and right. The guard nodded toward a door down the hall. There, Daniel gave their names to another guard standing at stiff attention. He flung the door open and announced, “Signora Francesca Marotti and Corporal Isidore, as commanded.”
Francesca breathed a little easier entering the room. Its mintgreen walls were striking, but, aside from a plaster relief on the ceiling, decorated with grapes and leaves, the room was modest after the scandalous foyer. The general stood to one side, poring over a large, detailed map. With him were several other officers—his aides, Francesca guessed from their elegant uniforms. They were much more finely dressed than Daniel. Bonaparte himself was by far the most inconspicuous, his coat simply buttoned to the top, lank hair skimming his epaulets.
“Signora Marotti!” he greeted her. “Welcome to my temporary home!”
Francesca ducked in an awkward curtsy.
Bonaparte clucked his tongue. Of the five men who were gathered around the table with him, three saluted and left.
“Madame, may I present my brother, Lucien Bonaparte, and my longtime friend and secretary, Lucien Bourrienne? Bourrienne will take notes as you describe when you first witnessed the so-called prodigy of the San Ciriaco Madonna.”
Francesca felt ice tingling throughout her body. She struggled to maintain her composure. “I will be happy to speak about this, General, for it is a joy to relate how the Blessed Lady honored me. But she has instructed me to relate her story only after my husband is released.”
Bourrienne gulped. One of Lucien’s eyebrows lifted. Bonaparte strode over to Francesca, seized her shoulders, and stared into her face. His eyes blazed in fury. She tried to step out of his grasp, but he held her fast.
“Do you mean to tell me,” he yelled straight at her, blasting her with his hot breath, “that you remain obdurate? Madame, do you not know that I can have your husband killed—and you as well?”
Trembling, Francesca could not tear her eyes away from the general’s fulminating glare. His fingers sank cruelly into her shoulders.
“You hold me in your power,” she said, in such a soft whisper that Bonaparte had to lean in to catch her words, “but still, I will not yield. You may end my life, but my soul is in far greater jeopardy. If I do not heed Our Lady when she commands me to be a loyal wife, to honor my wedding vows, I will burn in hell forever.”
“Bah!” The general let her go, pushing her so that she nearly fell backward. He strode about the room, hands clasped behind his back. His mouth was thinned, his eyes narrowed. “Lucien,” he said, turning to his brother, “what should we do with these Italian fools? How do we teach them that the Church is nothing but superstitious nonsense? How do we bring them to the joy of reason, of enlightenment?”
Bonaparte’s brother looked thoughtful. “Robespierre showed us how. I’d hoped other countries, seeing our revolution and the joy it’s brought the people, would not need to experience a similar Terror. But it appears that every nation must undergo its own crucible of blood.”
Francesca’s eyes widened in horror. Lucien’s face was softer than his brother’s, his eyes wider. Anyone would have thought him the gentler of the two. But the callousness of his words filled her with dread. As if the people he spoke of were not real, not people with hopes and dreams and lives of living, breathing Faith.
“You may be right.” Bonaparte nodded. “Yet these superstitions have a genuine hold on the people. Why even I, for a moment . . .” His voice trailed off. He turned to Daniel, who was standing stiffly to attention at a post near the door. “Corporal, tell the guard to bring in the prisoner.”
Daniel saluted and left the room. Francesca felt her knees grow weak. Emilio. I’ll see Emilio soon.
“I am not freeing him, you understand, Madame,” Bonaparte told her, his eyes cold. “But he may convince you to speak.”
Francesca willed herself to stand upright; she was finding it difficult to breathe. The men returned to their study of the map, ignoring her.
Minutes ticked by. The men were arguing now, their French flowing over Francesca like a torrent. She looked at the lovely room’s soothing green walls, trying to derive some comfort from their calm beauty.
“Ah!” Bonaparte said, looking up when Daniel finally returned, holding Emilio by the arm.
Francesca burst with joy to see him, but after another look, the happiness died in her throat.
“Emilio!” Francesca could barely say his name. “What have they done to you?”
Her husband was bruised and battered, lips swollen and crimson, right eye blackened. When Daniel released his arm, he staggered slightly, then pulled himself upright.
“Emilio Marotti, as requested, sir,” Daniel said, saluting, his eyes snapping with—was it anger? Contempt?
“Francesca, what are you doing here?” Emilio asked. His voice was hoarse and gritty; his swollen mouth garbled his words.
“Not a word, madame,” the general commanded. “Marotti, the men questioning you have informed me that you were responsible for killing at least two people during the attack on the Jewish ghetto, wounding many others. For that alone, you should be executed. You were also party to the ambush on my soldiers before we entered Ancona. You wanted to kill them all, didn’t you?”
“We never had a chance,” Emilio said, putting up a hand to his lips. “The men with me were cowards.”
“But you would have killed my men?”
Emilio hawked loudly. He looked like he was about to spit on the parquet floor, but Daniel stepped forward and shoved his musket in the prisoner’s face.
“Show the general some respect,” he barked.
“Stand down, Corporal,” Bonaparte said, looking amused. “You can’t teach a peasant how to behave in a palace. We learned that at Versailles.”
Daniel edged back, his face wiped blank.
“Again, man—you would have killed my soldiers?”
“It’s war, isn’t it?” Emilio growled. “Your men are here to rape our women and rob our land. Why shouldn’t we defend ourselves?”
Lucien Bonaparte tilted his head to one side. “The man makes a good point, Napoleone,” he said with a laugh.
Francesca blinked, momentarily distracted by the Italian form of the general’s given name.
“Bah!” Bonaparte put his hands behind his back and paced again. “Listen here, Marotti. You deserve to be hanged for your crimes. But I am a merciful man and will let you go free for a simple bargain. If you instruct your wife to tell me about witnessing the miracle of the Madonna portrait, you may walk out of this palace tonight.”
“Is that why she’s here?” Emilio looked astonished. “You’ll let me go if she tells you that? Francesca, for Christ’s sake, tell the man what he wants to know. It’s not as if you haven’t repeated the damned story to every passerby in Ancona.”
Lucien and the general exchanged glances. “Our guest does not seem to be the believer his wife is,” Lucien murmured.
Francesca’s che
eks grew warm at the younger Bonaparte’s amused comment. “Our Lady told me to make sure you were free before I said anything,” she muttered, head ducked low.
“Porca miseria, you risked my life because of your crazy notions? Mary is talking to you now? Have you gone mad?” Emilio staggered toward his wife, fist upraised. “Tell the general what he wants to know!” he cried between clenched teeth. “Do it this minute! And when we get home, I promise you . . .”
Francesca quailed under his threats. She reminded herself that he had been beaten, held at the mercy of the French for a week now. She cast an appealing glance toward Daniel, but he was looking away, shoulders hunched.
The general turned to her, his face twisted in a grimace. “Your husband commands you to tell me what you know, signora. You’ve said yourself you will honor your wedding vows. That is what your mother of God has demanded, is it not? And the most important of a woman’s vows is to obey. So?”
Francesca felt deflated. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with air. “I will tell you everything you wish to know.”
31
When Signora Marotti finished her story—and for a tale that had provoked so much drama, it was remarkably brief—Daniel was surprised by how much pity he felt for her. Her faith was clearly genuine. It was a shame she was married to a bully who did not deserve her.
Before dismissing the couple, the general told Marotti sternly that if he were detected in any new anti-French activities, he would be hanged without trial or recourse. He bade the guard at the door to usher them out.
Daniel turned to follow them.
“Hold on, Corporal Isidore,” Bonaparte said.
So Daniel remained at attention as the Marottis left the room. He exchanged a final glance with Signora Marotti as she passed. Moved by the kindness and sincerity beneath her piety, he felt sorry they would never meet again.
After the Marottis exited, a door in the opposite wall opened. Daniel was surprised when Christophe entered with two strangers in civilian dress. Bonaparte was bent over the map again, and it was Bourrienne who addressed them.
“Corporal Isidore, you know Corporal Lefevre, of course,” Bourrienne said. “I’d like to introduce you to Marc-Antoine Jullien and de Saint-Jean d’Angély, both writers of repute.”
The four men exchanged bows. Daniel glanced at Christophe quizzically, but his friend simply shrugged.
“Corporals Lefevre and Isidore have been with the Army of Italy since before General Bonaparte took command,” Bourrienne continued. “Their background may be of interest. Both came to the army having served as apprentices in a Parisian printshop owned by . . . your uncle, yes, Lefevre?”
“Yes, sir,” Christophe said. “Lefevre Printers. On the rue des Prêtres Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois.”
“And how long did you work there?”
“We were both apprenticed after the fall of the Bastille,” Christophe said. “That makes it—seven, no, eight years before we joined the army.”
Bourrienne nodded knowingly. “So is it safe to assume that you can manage a press?”
Daniel and Christophe exchanged glances. Neither had expected this.
“Yes, sir,” Christophe replied.
“Excellent. Jullien here studied in London before joining the Jacobins and working with Robespierre. He has written our Courrier de l’Armee d’Italie for several months now, which General Bonaparte subsidizes. D’Angély, a lawyer, has been writing a second paper for the troops, La France vue de l’Armee d’Italie.”
“Also subsidized by General Bonaparte,” d’Angély murmured.
“Indeed. Perhaps you are familiar with these papers?”
“I’ve read both,” said Daniel.
“They’re quite different from one another, aren’t they? The Courrier is more radical, while La France vue is more conservative.” From his years in the printshop, Daniel knew how much influence the press could have on the thoughts and minds of the public. Clearly, Bonaparte had learned that lesson as well.
“That was our intent.” Bourrienne nodded. “To appeal to both extremes. Now tell me, as professionals, what do you think of the quality?”
Taking a quarto sheet of newsprint, Christophe scanned the page quickly. “It’s sloppy work, sir. Letters dropped, ink smudged. Not left long enough to dry.”
“Several misspellings,” Daniel added. “No one proofing the plates.”
Bonaparte left the map and bounded over. “See, Bourrienne? Wasn’t I correct?”
“They can spot a fault, general,” Bourrienne said, not looking totally convinced. “But can they make it right?”
“The men working the presses now make excuses, saying it is impossible to print when they have to keep moving with the army,” d’Angély said. “But they were not trained as printers.”
“They’re not wrong, though,” Daniel mused. “Such a large print run—distributing to the entire Army of Italy while keeping up with the troops . . .”
“They also say that the press we’re using—a small one, so it can be transported easily—is not adequate to the volume they have to print,” Bourrienne added.
“Could you not centralize the printing in one city—Venice, perhaps, or Milan?” Daniel asked. “Have runners bring fresh news to the printshop? Then you could use a more substantial press—or even two or three. It would help, too, in maintaining the supplies—ink and newsprint, neither of which improve when transported through storms or heat. Or on the backs of mules, for that matter.” Daniel handed the pages back to Bourrienne.
“I told you, didn’t I?” Bonaparte crowed. “These are the men.” Daniel and Christophe looked at one another again. “Begging your pardon, sir, but neither of us joined the Army of Italy to work as printers,” Christophe said, standing at attention.
Bonaparte’s countenance darkened. “May I remind you, Corporal, that you are a soldier and will do as you are commanded? This is the second time I have spoken to you about insubordination. I warn you—do not let there be a third.”
“Yes, sir,” Christophe said, straightening his back even more. “I beg your pardon, sir.”
Bonaparte’s face softened. “Never mind, soldier. Had someone tried to remove me from active service and put me on the back lines, I would have felt the same. But this task is much more instrumental to the morale of the Army than your strong arm and brave heart.”
“We appreciate your confidence in us, sir,” Daniel spoke up, throwing Christophe a cautionary glance. “We won’t disappoint you.”
The general nodded. “I think centralizing the press is a worthy plan. Once we’ve taken Rome, we may relocate you there—but in the meantime, you’ll set up shop here in Ancona.”
“Here, sir? A fine thought, sir.” Christophe grinned from ear to ear. “In fact, sir, Ancona would be an excellent permanent location for the press. It is nearly in the center of Italy, is it not?” He looked at the map spread out on the table.
“We will start here, as I said.” Bonaparte nodded decisively. “Give Bourrienne a list of your requirements. As commanders of our printing staff, I’ll promote you both to the rank of regimental sergeant-major. With the appropriate raise in pay, of course.”
Daniel couldn’t believe it. Jumping to the second-highest non-commissioned rank in the French army would typically take years to achieve—but then, the Revolutionary army was rife with stories of generals who’d leaped from obscurity to prominence in an astoundingly short time. The enlisted men often discussed the youth of their officers—Bonaparte himself, all of twenty-seven years old; Junot, twenty-six; Joubert, twenty-eight. The troops’ admiration of these men knew no bounds. Every one of them thought they, too, could become a Bonaparte or a Bernadotte, who had attained his general’s insignia a mere four years after joining as a volunteer. Perhaps, Daniel thought dizzily, this was just the first step.
Of course, not everyone could reach so high. Sebastian, a soldier since before the Revolution, was still only a sergeant. And now Daniel outranked him. He
couldn’t help but grin, picturing Sebastian’s face when he learned the news.
Of course, Daniel realized, he would miss his comrades. They would be leaving the day after tomorrow for the march on Rome, while he and Christophe would be stuck here in Ancona.
He tried to convince himself of the good in this change. His parents would be pleased that he was out of immediate danger. And it would give him a chance to know his Italian cousins better.
And, he thought darkly, casting a glimpse at his grinning friend, it would give Christophe a chance to shake off his infatuation for Mirelle.
32
Mirelle couldn’t sleep. Too much had happened that day: the general’s visit to the ghetto, the walk home with David Morpurgo—did he really want to marry her?—and her aunt and cousin’s arrival. And then there was that maddening green-eyed friend of Cousin Daniel’s. Why did her pulse flutter and an uncontrollable warmth radiate through her whenever she stole a glance at him? And how had he known that she longed to escape the ghetto, for life to offer more than just being a wife and mother?
She wasn’t the only one feeling strain. Papa was curt at dinner, a sure sign he was exhausted. At Mama’s insistence, they all retired early. But now Mirelle, head and heart full, tossed restlessly beneath her down coverlet on the cot Anna had set up in her room. Her aunt, of course, slept in the more comfortable bed.
Desperate to rest and unsure how to quench the unruly emotions that plagued her, her thoughts landed on her brother. What would Jacopo have done, had he lived to see the French occupation of Ancona? She closed her eyes and pictured her brother’s thrill at witnessing the knocking down of the ghetto gates. How he’d hated being penned up every sundown! A sudden thought forced her eyes wide. She sat up, hearing Jacopo’s voice in her head: I’d leave the ghetto at night, he told her. See those stars over the open harbor. Why haven’t you?
Beyond the Ghetto Gates Page 18