“Indeed, Madame Clary is not only beautiful, like her daughters, but also well-informed. The island is terribly unstable,” Joseph answered. “And I fear that my family aligned with the wrong side. Hence, we are exiles. France is now home.” Joseph said the last part as if he were trying to convince himself of that fact.
“Well, Joseph di Buonaparte,” Maman said, her voice warm as she finished off her second glass of champagne, “Corsica’s loss is our most fortunate gain—today you have been our deliverer, and you must allow us to thank you.”
“Why do the Clarys keep insisting on thanking me? Does no one in France extend a favor without expecting some payment in return?” Joseph laughed at his own remark, and Mother waved a hand as she answered: “Ah, well, we are of the merchant class. You must forgive us our need to settle our accounts.”
“Well, in that case, if a price is insisted upon,” Joseph said, his smile suddenly turning bashful. “There is one thing.”
“Please do tell,” Maman said, an eyebrow arched, her entire expression expectant, poised to grant any request. None of us knew how, exactly, Joseph di Buonaparte had come into the power to see to Nicolas’s release, but clearly Maman wished to keep him as a friend.
“Madame Clary, with your consent, please allow me to call on your daughter Desiree.”
The entire room fell silent as Mother’s eyes careened toward me, her mouth falling open. Clearly, this was not a favor she had been expecting. But then I saw it—the shifting of her features, the understanding of the opportunity, her surprise turning into an expression of visible delight. Julie shifted in her seat. Maman smiled at me before turning back to our guest. “Of course. You must come again. We insist.”
“Grazie! Then I shall come tomorrow, perhaps at—” but Joseph’s words were cut short, for just then we heard a strange shouting noise. The glass doors that ran the length of the drawing room were opened out onto the terrace and gardens, allowing a man’s shrill voice to float to us indoors. “Come out here, bastardo!” the faceless voice cried from the street, and even though only one of us in the room spoke fluent Italian, we all understood well enough.
“Goodness.” Mother blanched, looking to our guest, embarrassed. “What a thing to hear. I…I…don’t know what to say. Usually, in this quarter, we don’t suffer the indignities of the mob. Some student, drunk, no doubt.”
“I know you’re in there, figlio di puttana, you son of a whore!”
“Heavens!” Mother’s eyes darted from Joseph toward my direction as she grimaced. “Desiree, shut the doors, would you? Nicolas, please have one of the servants inform the gendarmes. Some drunken troublemaker yelling obscenities around the entire neighborhood—it cannot be tolerated.”
As I crossed the room toward the doors, Joseph lifted a hand and placed it on my arm. “No, wait, please.” He stilled me and then stood, making his way out onto the terrace. There, he did the last thing I expected him to do. He raised his hands and, veins bulging in his neck, yelled out into the dark night: “Bastardo, chiudi la bocca! O ti ucciderò!”
Maman gasped. Nicolas frowned as Julie and I looked to each other, eyes wide. I had to clasp a hand over my mouth to stop the laughter. Then Joseph turned back to us, flushed, chuckling heartily. “He calls me a bastard, a son of a whore, but the fool doesn’t realize that the same insults then fall on him.”
Not one of us offered a reply. I could all but hear Maman’s heart clamoring in her breast.
Joseph chuckled again, his round cheeks flushed. “It’s nothing—only my troublemaker of a brother.”
“Your…your brother?” Maman repeated, her warm, approving smile fading.
“Yes.” Joseph nodded, replacing his cap on his head as if to leave, apparently unaware of the shock he’d caused. “We don’t call him Il Rabulione for nothing.”
Nicolas, whose Italian was far better than my own, repeated the nickname. “Il Rabulione. The Rascal?”
“That’s right,” Joseph said. “Always has been.”
“Well, then. That’s that.” Maman gestured to Nicolas to see our guest out.
“The Rascal,” I said, pressing my lips tightly together so as not to laugh at Mother’s pained expression. It really had been quite an unusual day. “And…what’s his real name?” I was impossibly curious about this young man who would stand outside the grand home of perfect strangers, hurling insults over their walls on the hunch that his brother stood inside.
“His real name is Napoleone,” Joseph answered, turning as he reached the threshold of the room. “Until tomorrow.”
With that Joseph bowed farewell, and my mother repeated her thanks one final time, but not her invitation for the next day’s visit. Standing in the room now with only my sister and Maman, I turned once more toward the opened glass doors, beyond which darkness covered the gardens. I narrowed my eyes; in the faint glow of evening, I could make out our front gate. There, though almost entirely obscured by shadow, I could just barely detect the outline of a lone figure.
What an odd name, I thought. What had Joseph said? Napoleone. A most singular name. And, from the sound of it, a singular sort of man, too. I’d never known a Napoleone before.
Chapter 3
Marseille
1794
THE BUONAPARTE BROTHERS WERE TO become a sudden, surprising presence in our lives. Joseph called early the next morning—earlier than expected—and he did not come alone. I sat on the bright terrace finishing my coffee, Julie and Maman at the table with me, when the startled servant appeared and announced our two visitors. Fortunately we were dressed for the day, even if not yet entirely prepared to welcome guests.
“Very well.” Maman sighed. “Show them in.” Under her breath, she added: “I wish he hadn’t brought that dreadful brother along. And yet, we are to be charm itself, girls. This di Buonaparte fellow, somehow, has the power to keep us safe. We shall not squander that, understood?”
We rose as the two men entered, offering cordial greetings of welcome. Julie, I noticed, offered an uncharacteristically bright smile toward Joseph. My eyes went with curious interest toward the younger one. Napoleone, Joseph had called him. Il Rabulione. The Rascal.
“Please, would you join us?” Maman gestured toward two empty chairs.
“It would be our pleasure.” Joseph nodded as he and his brother accepted. “I am so pleased to find you all looking so well after the events of yesterday. The Clary ladies outshine the Marseille sunlight this morning,” he added with a flourish of his wrist as he removed his cap, the revolutionary cockade visible on its front, just as it was on his brother’s.
I took a moment to survey our visitors: the two Buonaparte brothers were entirely dissimilar in appearance, and, I suspected, in demeanor as well. Joseph was built tall and broad, his wide face spread in an open, straightforward smile. His brother, Napoleone, did not appear to possess the same ease in our company, nor the same general fluidity of manners. He appeared stiff beside Joseph, his short and narrow frame clad in a pristine military uniform. His officer’s coat had a high neck and bright red collar, with freshly shined brass buttons down its front. Like his brother, he had dark hair, but his grew longer, falling on his shoulders, unbrushed, even slightly unkempt. His thin nose gave him the look of a Roman centurion, and his green eyes stared straight ahead, a surly expression with no attempt at a smile.
While I had no idea of their ages, I guessed that Joseph must be the older of the two. And yet, I noticed as they sat that Joseph seemed to look to his brother as if for cues. It was evident in how Napoleone chose his seat first and Joseph reacted. How Joseph seemed to wait for Napoleone until he sat in his chair.
I wiped my mouth, my face warming with embarrassment as I surveyed the place before me at the breakfast table with a heightened awareness of how it might appear to our guests: my bowl of coffee had a skin of murky white oil floating across the top from where I had dun
ked my buttered bread; scraps of soggy baguette, the remainder of my morning meal, seeped into mush on my plate. It all appeared so childish, so unrefined, next to this stern man in his officer’s uniform.
“Can we offer you some coffee? Some brioche or tarts?” Maman gestured toward the platter from which we’d been picking.
Napoleone nodded his assent, making a sort of grunting noise as he reached for a brioche. Unvarnished, almost boldly and defiantly so, he bit vigorously into the roll and then, as an afterthought, tipped what was left of the brioche in Maman’s direction. “Thank you, citizeness.”
“I’m sure you’re quite welcome,” Maman said, barely masking her distaste. A person with genteel manners did not eat so hungrily in the presence of relative strangers, and ladies at that. I pressed my lips together, trying not to smile. Just then, Napoleone lifted his eyes and met my own. I was startled by it—by the intensity of his stare, by the magnetic pull of his dark-green gaze. I swallowed, my appetite for my remaining breakfast gone.
“You didn’t meet him last night.” Joseph gestured toward his brother. “Just heard his colorful words echoing across the neighborhood.”
“Indeed,” said Maman, shifting in her chair. Napoleone did not take that moment’s opportunity to apologize for the previous evening’s litany, nor, apparently, did he feel any shame. Maman cleared her throat, patting the silk folds of her broad skirt as this young man tipped his chin in my direction and said: “It is a pleasure to meet you.” And yet, neither his expression nor his tone seemed to carry any pleasure. Meeting his eyes with my own, I felt as though my stomach might flip on itself.
“What an odd name you have,” Maman remarked, glancing toward Julie with an eyebrow arched. Whatever gratitude or goodwill she bore for Joseph from yesterday did not appear to extend to his brother. “Napoleone. Is it…a Corsican name?”
“Italian.” His voice was unique—softer than Joseph’s, tinged with a silky quality. “From Machiavelli. You are familiar with his writings?”
“ ‘The ends justify the means’—of course I’m familiar with Machiavelli,” Maman said, a touch defensively.
“That was one of his assertions.” Napoleone nodded, moving his eyes from me toward Maman. “And do you agree?”
Maman sat a bit stiffer in her chair. “Do I agree with what?”
“With the scholar, with Machiavelli? That a good result for the State justifies any means taken by its ruler, however ruthless?”
Maman shrugged, blinking against the brightening sun, against the intensity of this young man’s appraising stare. “I’m sure I haven’t put much thought into it. Certainly not this early in the day.”
“Well, regardless—” Joseph interjected, but Napoleone raised a hand. “Quiet, Joseph.” The older brother, surprisingly, obeyed. Napoleone continued, eyes fixed intently on Maman: “I consider it our duty, all of us, to put thought into such matters. We are, after all, free citizens suddenly in charge of our own fates. And tasked with building a new nation.”
With that Napoleone turned his eyes squarely on me, and I forced myself to return his gaze. I would not allow him to intimidate me with the intensity of his looks, even if I did feel a strange jolt run through me—a sensation entirely foreign, if not unpleasant. I was aware that Maman noticed our locked stare, as did the others. Finally, when Napoleone coughed, I allowed myself to look away, down at my lap, my hands running over the silk folds of the gown that pooled there. We always dressed well, even now in a time of revolution, given that our wealth was built largely on the silk trade. My gown that morning was of a rich raspberry silk, fitted tight around the bodice with a full, luxurious skirt. Her head may be gone, but her power remains, Maman often said of our dead queen and the influence she continued to wield over all matters relating to fashion.
Like most young French girls, Julie and I had grown up idolizing Marie-Antoinette, a queen known for her luxurious taste when it came to clothing, hairstyles, and jewelry. Her miniatures had been scattered all throughout our bedchamber. Of course, nowadays, one might as well sign one’s own guillotine orders if caught possessing Marie-Antoinette’s likeness. But still, her mark on fashion lingered. We continued to dress in the lavish style of her ill-fated court, and on that morning, I was grateful for our wealth and our fully stocked wardrobes, for I noted how this young man, Napoleone di Buonaparte, studied my appearance, and I guessed from his attention that I met his approval.
Maman cleared her throat and Julie took up the efforts of hostess. “My brother, Nicolas, is not at home; he’s gone to the factories to inform our workers of his happy release. Otherwise, I am certain he would reiterate the thanks that we all feel toward you, Joseph.” My sister looked to our guest and I noted with surprise how she smiled, even appeared to blush.
Joseph returned Julie’s gaze, preparing to reply, but he was once again preempted by Napoleone, who declared: “We were happy to help.”
Julie looked from Joseph to the younger brother. “We?” she repeated.
Napoleone nodded, reaching for a second bun and biting into it before speaking: “My brother claimed the credit?”
I frowned, confused, as Napoleone jabbed Joseph’s broad frame with an elbow, rattling off a slew of incomprehensible Italian before addressing me: “I see that my brother once again basks in the sunlight of my connections. That’s a Corsican family for you—you think he’s unashamed, you should see how my sisters put me to work for them. Or Mamma! But I can’t blame Joseph in this instance…who wouldn’t wish to win the gratitude of the beautiful Clary sisters?” Napoleone smirked before elbowing Joseph once more. Gone was the confident and garrulous Joseph di Buonaparte of the previous day, so eclipsed was the large man by his much smaller companion.
“I’m good friends with the Robespierres, you see,” Napoleone said, staring at me. “Augustin has become a champion of mine, and he has the direct ear of his brother, Maximilien.”
“Maximilien?” Maman repeated the name. “Maximilien Robespierre?”
Napoleone nodded yes, as if friendship with the most powerful man in France—and the most feared, most ruthless prosecutor of revolutionary justice—was a mere fact to be served over morning coffee and brioche.
“And how…if I may be so bold…has it happened that the Robespierre brothers have become, how did you put it, your ‘champions’?” Maman asked, her tone suddenly more hospitable, even if a touch incredulous.
“Ah, they call him the Boy General,” Joseph said, speaking now, and his brother allowed it. “The Boy Wonder. The Prodigy.”
Napoleone raised a hand. “You’ll make me blush, brother.” I noticed it then, the fleeting glance, just a flash, but Napoleone looked toward me, as if gauging my reaction. Then he clapped his hands, rubbing his palms together. “But, alas, Joseph, we must go.”
“Already?” Joseph looked at his brother, disappointed but apparently willing to obey. Napoleone nodded. “Look at the hour. It’s possible that word has come back.”
Joseph shrugged. “My brother makes no allowances for social engagements. I was happy that he even allowed us to call this morning on our way into town.”
“We have urgent business at the town hall,” Napoleone said, rising.
“The Boy General?” Maman repeated the nickname as she rose from her chair. “A general, at your age?” Maman appeared impressed, even if still not entirely approving of this younger brother. “But you cannot be more than thirty years old.”
“Twenty-four, in fact.” Napoleone replaced the bicorn hat atop his head of dark, shaggy hair.
“Twenty-four! A general?” Maman eyed his uniform with newfound curiosity.
Joseph, who wore the civilian garb of loose pantaloons and a frock coat, bowed as he answered: “Ah, well, he is in fact a genius. And with our nation under attack from England and Italy and every crowned head in between, we need leaders, do we not?”
We walked the men to the edge of the terrace, and I noted with delight that Napoleone stepped in beside me. Leaning close, his voice soft, he spoke so that only I might hear: “My brother would not stop talking about you.”
I glanced sideways at him, saying nothing, using my eyes to invite him to speak further. “I can see why,” he added.
I bit my lower lip to slow the broad smile that threatened to burst across my face. I didn’t know how to reply, but I needn’t have worried, for Napoleone continued: “My brother is right. I have very little patience for social engagements, but I’d like to speak with you again. I will return this evening.”
He said it as a statement, a point of fact; I had no opportunity to agree or disagree, for it was not a request. I offered a nod, but even that seemed unnecessary, for Napoleone, his gaze alert and probing, seemed to know already that I wished to see him again.
Chapter 4
Marseille
1794
THE BUONAPARTE BROTHERS CONTINUED TO appear regularly at our home. They were nothing if not men of their word.
Maman complained of a headache all that afternoon, so overwhelmed was she by the events of the recent days. “What a disagreeable fellow, the younger one,” she said after they departed. “Joseph is blustery, but at least he has a certain charm. Gregarious. But that younger one is surly in his demeanor and uncouth in his manners. But I suppose we mustn’t spurn his friendship….” She sighed. “He’ll move on, soon enough, to some other port, if he’s truly the general he claims to be. Soldiers always move on.” She took to her bed for the rest of the day, and since Nicolas hadn’t yet returned from the workhouses, it was only Julie and me to receive Joseph and Napoleone when they called after supper.
It wasn’t improper, given that Maman was at home and we were a group of four in the salon, surrounded by servants buzzing throughout the house, and given the fact that Julie, six years my senior, carried herself with the decorum of someone twice her age.
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