The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

  “It does not take a clairvoyant to see that the Bonapartes wish you dead, but given the inconvenience of being caught with blood on their collective hands, would settle for ruin, no doubt. And in their midst, of late, a rather lovely young woman has been seen—a girl who was, at one time, your lady’s maid.” He took a small, careful sip of his glass of orange water. “It is a wisdom well understood by our ci-devant nobility that one should never reveal oneself to a man or woman who is in one’s pay. Servants thus taken into confidence come to know a great deal, putting them in a position to profit from the sale of such. And profit, even a Revolutionary will tell you, is an irresistible force of Nature. Perhaps it is this young woman who concerns you.”

  Lisette had been seen with the Bonapartes? I went to the window, my cheeks burning. “No, it is not Citoyenne Compoint.”

  “Perhaps it has to do with your present state of”—he paused—“embarrassment.”

  My debts, he meant. “It has nothing to do with that.” Appalled, I confess, by how much Fouché knew.

  “Then no doubt it regards the somewhat suspect practices of your business associates, the brothers Bodin.”

  Suspect practices? “The name Bodin is unfamiliar to me, Citoyen Fouché,” I told him with splendid calm.

  Fouché unbuttoned his jacket, revealing a dapper silver-trimmed waistcoat underneath. “Citoyenne, you are an effective liar, a quality I have always admired in you. Tell me, then—what is it you wish to know?”

  “General Hoche’s widow has solicited my help.” Fouché sat back, surprised. It pleased me, I confess, to startle a man such as Fouché, a professional in the matter of knowing. “Her father-in-law, Père Hoche, the late General Hoche’s father, is subject to morbid dreams, rages that have weakened his constitution. He has become obsessed with finding out how his son died.”

  “Case closed, Citoyenne. It is common knowledge General Hoche died of consumption.”

  “Specifically, the elder Hoche has tried, without success, to obtain a copy of the autopsy report—”

  “Which, being a military matter, is confidential, of course.”

  I nodded. “So I was told. The fact that no one is permitted to see it has inflamed Père Hoche’s imagination further.”

  “But no doubt Director Barras could obtain a copy for you.”

  “I’m afraid not.” I paused, unsure whether I should tell Fouché how emotional Barras had become at the very mention of it. “The problem is, Père Hoche is convinced his son was poisoned.”

  “Père Hoche and the rest of Paris.” Fouché made a dismissive gesture. “Does he have cause? Or is he feeding off rumours like the rest of us?”

  “He claims his son suffered convulsions in his dying moments.” I swallowed, a wave of tears rising dangerously within me. “Apparently, convulsions are not symptomatic of consumption.”

  Fouché bit the inside of one cheek, considering.

  “I’m of the view that the father’s grief is driving him mad. If he could just see the autopsy report, it might put his imaginings to rest. But after talking to Director Barras, I have come to the conclusion that obtaining a copy of the report will not be easy. Indeed, that it might require a certain degree of, well—”

  “Sleuthing?”

  I smiled apologetically. “Not to mention discretion. For I’m sure you can understand, Citoyen Fouché, how important it is that my own involvement in this matter be kept strictly confidential.”

  “Secrecy is my passion, Citoyenne.”

  April 6.

  At Barras’s salon last night Fouché sidled up to me. “The autopsy report appears to be missing from the Ministry of War’s files,” he whispered, widening his eyes.

  I motioned to him to be silent. Talleyrand had just entered the room.

  “I have a contact at the School of Medicine,” he went on. “He should be able to give me the name of the surgeon who performed the autopsy.”

  “How good to see you this evening, Citoyen Talleyrand,” I said, giving the Minister of Foreign Affairs my hand.

  April 7.

  “I located the surgeon who performed the autopsy, but he demands one hundred francs,” Fouché informed me tonight in the corridor at the Luxembourg Palace. “Are you willing?”

  “To pay one hundred francs? Just for a copy of the report?”

  Fouché shrugged. “I was surprised he didn’t ask for more.”

  April 8, Easter Sunday.

  “You got it?” I asked Fouché, my voice thick. I did not care for this, did not care for any of it, neither the seeking nor the finding. I wanted it to be over. Were it not for my promise to help the widow Hoche, I would wash my hands of this business completely.

  Fouché arched his thin red eyebrows, his hand on his coat pocket. “I did. But it will not appease the father,” he warned, unfolding the single yellowed sheet. “According to the autopsy report, the cause of General Hoche’s death is”—he paused for effect—“unknown.”

  It was not at all what I had expected. Barras himself had told me that the autopsy had determined that Lazare had died of consumption. “So General Hoche did not die of consumption?” I scanned the document and then folded it. I did not want to read it.

  “Possibly—because if he had died of consumption, it seems to me that the surgeon would have clearly stated so. But if one were to die of poisoning—let us say, just for the purpose of inquiry—the effects being subtle and therefore mysterious, then the cause of death would, most likely, be reported as—”

  “Unknown!” Père Hoche shook the report in the air, as if at the gods. “My son was poisoned. There’s nothing unknown about that. And I’ll tell you who did it—Director Barras.”

  I glanced at the widow, dismayed. She was standing by the fireplace, her hand on the blue urn on the mantel. I wanted to speak out in Barras’s defence, but I knew that it would only enrage the old man further.

  “And I’ll tell you why,” he ranted on. “Director Barras murdered my son because Lazare had integrity. Speak that word around Director Barras and see if he even knows it. Integrity, honesty, bravery—they’re all foreign words to that traitor.”

  “Can’t sleep?” Mimi asked, discovering me in the downstairs drawing room, curled up on the sofa, staring into the embers.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “Two,” she said.

  I sighed. Would I ever sleep? “I have worries, Mimi.”

  “I know.”

  I smiled. Mimi knew everything.

  “Want to talk?”

  “Not yet,” I told her, standing.

  “Always remember, we’re looking over you,” she said, “your mother and I.”

  I turned at the landing. “Thank you.”

  April 9.

  Bonaparte and I have just returned from an evening at Barras’s salon. I’m in turmoil over a conversation with Fouché. He informed me that the man who had performed the autopsy had come to his home offering more information—in exchange for more money, of course. “I took it upon myself to pay on your behalf.”

  “Oh,” I said weakly. I thought the matter was finished. He’d obtained the report. The business was done.

  “It seems that after the autopsy, General Hoche’s doctor asked that the heart be put aside.”

  Lazare’s heart? Why? I sat down, sickened. I could not bear to think of Lazare’s body in this way, as a collection of so many parts.

  “Furthermore,” Fouché said, sitting down beside me and hunching forward, his elbows on his knees, “there were specks in the lining of the stomach—sufficient to cause suspicion, but insufficient to prove anything.”

  “Suspicion of what?” I heard a clock chime, followed by another, and then another.

  “Of poisoning.” He turned to me and smiled. “May I make a suggestion, Citoyenne? Over the years I have learned that success depends on one thing and one thing only—the courage to ask the true question. And with respect, the true question may not be how General Hoche died, but rather who, i
n fact, killed him.”

  “Citoyen Fouché, I would like this investigation dropped.”

  He looked puzzled. “But Citoyenne—”

  “I insist!”

  April 10.

  Bonaparte is frantic. There is so much to do, and everything made difficult by the necessity of raising the funds for the expedition—an expedition whose actual destination must remain unknown (to prevent the English from finding out). To that end we have been entertaining every evening—last night the banker Perrégaus; tonight Collot, the munitioner. Those evenings we do not entertain, Bonaparte and I attend Barras’s salon at the Luxembourg Palace, where the talk is invariably of what everyone is now calling “Bonaparte’s crusade.”

  April 11.

  Every evening we receive members of the Académie: engineers, chemists, zoologists, cartographers, antiquarians. Bonaparte is determined to take over one hundred savants with him. He must be persuasive, for the destination remains secret.*

  April 12.

  “Basta!” Bonaparte threw his hat onto the carpet, pulled off his boots. “You know the song and dance about Louis being too ill to join the expedition?” He made a sputtering noise. “I just found out the true reason.”

  “Louis is going to Barèges, for a cure.” Ever since we’d returned from Italy, Bonaparte’s younger brother had often been unwell. “Isn’t he?”

  “That’s just an excuse.” Bonaparte hit a table with his fist. I steadied the clock just before it toppled. “No, it’s because he’s in love, of all things.”

  I took Pugdog onto my lap, stroked his silky fur. “Why that’s—”

  Bonaparte glared. “With Émilie.”

  “My Émilie?” I was astonished.

  “The daughter of an émigré,” he said, his cheek twitching. “And her parents divorced. And her mother remarried to a mulatto!” He pulled the servant rope. Mimi appeared, tying her apron strings. “Get Louis.”

  “What do you intend to tell him, Bonaparte?”

  “To begin packing for Egypt.” Bonaparte glowered into the embers. “And that he’s never to see her again. And that she is betrothed.”

  “But Bonaparte—”

  “And that she’s to be married in a matter of weeks.”

  “Married?” I’d seen Émilie a few days ago, and she’d said nothing of the matter. “To whom?”

  “That’s for you to determine.” He strode to the door. “Louis!” I heard him stomping up the stairs.

  April 13.

  Both Bonaparte’s brothers Lucien and Joseph have been elected to the Council of Five Hundred. (Lucien is only twenty-three!) At this rate, the Republic will be ruled by Bonapartes. Bien—so long as they don’t rule me.

  April 18.

  Eugène waved a paper in the air, Lavalette hovering behind him. “We’re leaving in four days!”

  Four days? “Why so soon?” Bonaparte and I wouldn’t be leaving for at least a month—or so he’d told me.

  “At four in the morning,” Eugène said, puzzling over the paper. “Lieutenant Lavalette, Louis and I. We’re to go in civilian clothes. We’re not allowed to tell anyone that we’re aides, and if asked where we’re headed, we’re to say we’re going to Brest.” He looked at Lavalette. “Brest?”

  “That’s likely to keep the English confused,” I said.

  “If they’re only half as confused as we are, they’ll be confused,” Lavalette said.

  I heard footsteps on the stairs, light hurried steps punctuated by clicking spurs—Bonaparte.

  “One word before you go, Bonaparte.” I stood in the door to stop him.

  “I’m late. What is it?” he demanded, buttoning up his grey uniform jacket. No matter how many fashionable new jackets I had the tailor make for him, Bonaparte invariably chose to wear his plain grey one with the frayed epaulettes.

  “Lavalette might be the man we’re—”

  He squinted at me, confused.

  “For Émilie.” I nodded toward the front door. “He’s in the courtyard.”

  “Lieutenant Lavalette? You want me to talk to him? Now?”

  “He’s to leave in four days!”

  Lavalette stood in the dining room door, his green felt hat in his hand.

  “The General has spoken to you?” I asked, standing to greet him.

  “Madame Bonaparte, I am…I must confess, she is an angel, everything I could ever…but”—he ran his hand over his balding head—“but she is a girl, and I’m already twenty-nine.”

  “Twenty-nine is not so very old, Lieutenant.” I’d thought he was older, in fact.

  “The General said that the wedding must be held in one week.”

  One week! Was Émilie to be introduced at the altar? “In that case we should go out to the school tomorrow.” Lavalette, Bonaparte, Eugène and I would go. “I will introduce you, and you will make your proposal.”

  “T-t-tomorrow?”

  April 19.

  Bonaparte had a report to dispatch to the Directory, so it was noon by the time we arrived at the school. Caroline (who has only recently been enrolled) and Hortense came bounding out to join us, Émilie following. “It’s such a lovely day, I thought a picnic might be nice,” I said, embracing each in turn. Émilie looked charming in her broad-brimmed bonnet: a good omen, I thought.

  “I already ate,” Caroline said.

  I glanced at Lavalette. He was standing with his hands clasped in front of him, gripping a bouquet of wilted violets. “Lieutenant Lavalette, do you know everyone here?” I introduced the girls, but they were more interested in Eugène’s new uniform. “Perhaps Eugène will carry the basket,” I suggested, taking Bonaparte’s arm. I knew a spot under some oak trees.

  We proceeded down the wide gravel path. Now and again Caroline cast a glance at Lavalette, at the curious bouquet of wilted flowers he was clutching. She whispered something to Hortense, who burst into giggles. I caught Lavalette’s eye. “I know a girl who happens to love violets,” I said, nudging Émilie. Wordlessly, Lavalette pushed the bouquet at her. Suddenly the girls fell silent.

  We came to the spot I had in mind. Caroline, Émilie and Hortense rushed to help me unpack the basket. Eugène busied himself folding the napkins in cocked-hat fashion. We spread the hemp picnic cloth, laid out the food: flat bread, a mild cheese, roasted hare.

  We ate quickly, in silence. Bonaparte threw his bones into the woods. I asked Eugène to entertain us with his imitations. Then the time came to pack the basket. I took Bonaparte’s arm. “I’d like to see the pond before we go.”

  Eugène grabbed Caroline and Hortense by the hand and began running down the path. Émilie made a few steps to follow them. “No!” Eugène called back to her. “You stay.”

  “Oh, I can’t bear it,” I told Bonaparte, walking briskly to keep up with him. I glanced over my shoulder. I saw Lavalette bend down and kiss Émilie on top of her head. “I think we can go back now,” I said.

  [Undated]

  Louis looked surprised that Émilie is to be married, but other than that he showed no emotion. He was not happy, however, about having to go on the expedition. His health concerns me.

  April 22, Sunday.

  Eugène has been packing. Slipping something into his leather valise (a song Hortense had written for him), I saw his scrapbooks on the shelf. The house was silent: safe. I took down the one about Hoche, opened the glue-stiff pages. It was all there: Lazare’s glory, his final disgrace.

  What followed were the eulogies: the profound outpouring of a nation’s grief over the death of a true Republican, a passionate defender of la liberté. In the words spoken following his death, I could read a lament not so much for Lazare, but for the freedom he had fought for, died for: la liberté ou la mort.

  Had Lazare been poisoned? Had he died defending la liberté? I closed the scrapbook, put it back on the shelf exactly as I had found it.

  May 4.

  It was on the way home from the theatre that Bonaparte informed me, “We leave tonight.”

&nbs
p; I put my hand on his wrist. “You don’t really mean tonight…do you?”

  He held his watch fob to the light of the moon. “As soon as we get home. We’ll pick up Louis and Eugène in Lyons.”

  “But…” We weren’t packed. “But what about Hortense? I can’t just leave without—”

  May 9—Toulon.

  It was early when we pulled into the port of Toulon, in spite of a mishap on the road.

  “Look,” Bonaparte’s secretary Fauvelet exclaimed.

  Looking out over the harbour I saw the French fleet at anchor, a forest of masts. “Is that La Pomone?” I asked. Seventeen years before I’d come to France on La Pomone. “How many ships are there?” I’d never seen so many.

  “Three hundred and ten,” Louis said.

  “The greatest fleet in history since the Crusades,” Eugène said in an awed whisper.

  10:30 A.M.

  In the market the talk is only of the fleet, where it may be heading. “There is even a booth for placing bets,” Eugène said.

  “I bet a sou there on Portugal,” Mimi said, looking up from her mending.

  “Oh?”

  “And then there was a rush of bets on Portugal. Everyone thought I knew.”

  “Which is the favoured destination?” Bonaparte asked, looking up from the volume of poetry he was reading, his beloved Ossian. (“A tale of the times of old! The deeds of days of other years!”)

  “The Crimea,” Mimi said.

  Eugène and Louis snickered, imagining that they knew the true destination.

  May 12.

  Bonaparte has been in a flurry of activity, organizing provisions, going over the lists, the ships, the artillery. Going over the maps. Now, he is ready, and impatient. He waits on the wind.