That was the first and last time that I had personal interaction with Bonaparte. Crude and inconsiderate of the feelings of others, he was nonetheless compelling in his sheer energy and assumption of command. I could sense in those few minutes what had drawn so many men to him. In the coming years the full folly of their trust in him would be revealed.
Chapter 6
Paris, 1813-1814
In January 1813, Girodet gave a dinner party to celebrate the return of his friend Dominique Jean Larrey from the Russian campaign. Larrey, the chief surgeon of Napoleon’s Imperial Guard, had married one of David’s students and become a friend of Girodet, if not of Antoine. Nonetheless we too were invited for Madame Larrey’s sake.
As we dressed for the evening – I chose a wine-red gown and the garnet necklace and earrings Antoine has given me for Christmas – I asked my husband about her. He smiled at the memories. “The Leroux-Laville sisters, Charlotte and Marie, were two of David’s most promising women students. Marie was a year older than I, quite a young lady. I was rather in awe of her. Her father was the King’s finance minister, and we had no doubt she would marry well. We were all a little in love with Charlotte. She was younger than I and not so grand. François Gérard was head over heels in love with her, and almost married her.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“He was an ardent supporter of the Revolution, in the mold of David. One day he came to the studio in Republican dress, just when Charlotte and her family were beginning to worry about her father’s position and the survival of the royal family. She was furious with François. Told him exactly what she thought of him, and threw his ring in his face. We were mesmerized by her fire and passion. We’d never seen a woman erupt in such fury before.” His eyes sparkled. He might have been describing an incident from one of his battle scenes, the charge of an Arabian horse or a Turkish warrior intent upon the head of a Frenchman.
I was impressed. “That was courageous of her. People were imprisoned for less.”
“Yes,” he shuddered. “And Gérard was just the person to denounce those who disagreed with him. He did that to me – that’s why I went to Italy when I did. Fortunately, he couldn’t do it where Charlotte was concerned – as much for fear of appearing a vengeful jilted fool as for love of her.”
“And what did David think of it?”
“He wasn’t there that morning. She stopped coming to the studio after that, and David was too distracted by his political activities to ask why. But she remained friends with the rest of us. We heard she had fallen in love with a young army surgeon, and that her father—”
“The minister––”
“—objected to his lack of prospects. But she, too, knew how to fight for a cause she believed in. After they married, we all met Larrey. He and Girodet became friends, but I could never stomach him. He always had too good an opinion of himself, and a lesser opinion of the mere mortals with whom he was forced to associate. Until I started to gain a reputation, of course – then I was a treated as a friend of long standing who would naturally be eager to include his portrait in Jaffa or Eylau.”
“But you didn’t,” I replied, thinking of my encounter with the artist’s model who had posed for Jaffa.
“I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction – not even to please Charlotte.” He said it with the air of scoring a point against an opponent. He smiled. “Tonight, he’ll ignore me as much as possible, and treat me as of no importance when he is obliged to take notice of me. Just you watch.”
Despite my husband’s misgivings, I looked forward to meeting the legendary Larrey, veteran of Egypt and Eylau, who was celebrated by everyone from the Emperor to the rank-and-file troops. He defied death – his own and his patients’ – by carrying out surgeries on the battlefield itself while the fighting raged around him. On first sight, it was apparent he had not yet fully recovered from the starvation and frostbite of the Russian campaign; even after a month of plentiful food, his clothes hung on him. His face was seamed and weather-beaten, his dark hair going grey. But his black eyes were intent and intelligent and full of life. He retained his society manners, bowing when he was introduced to me and behaving towards Antoine with a minimum of politeness, though I caught him scowling when he thought no one was looking. Charlotte, at his side, was dark-haired and slender, dressed in a gown of deep yellow that seemed to bring a ray of sunshine into the room. Her smile was dazzling, yet in repose her face, too, showed signs of strain. It could not be easy to be separated so often, and for so long, from the man she loved.
Girodet had the confidence that comes from being both wellborn and one of Napoleon’s chosen artists, whose originality had made his reputation. He was not only able to purchase his house with family money but also to hire Percier and Fontaine, the leading architects of the day, to decorate it. The walls were stenciled with Percier’s signature delicate classical detail but in a bold color scheme that could only be Girodet’s. That he was a non-imperial commission they would make time for, in itself spoke of his importance – though, unlike Larrey, he was never one to insist upon it. He carried himself with his usual self-deprecating humor, and I couldn’t help liking him.
He greeted me as an old friend. In a quiet moment alone, I told him how sorry I was to learn that The Revolt in Cairo had been removed from the Galerie de Diane and placed in storage.
“Yes, Empress Marie-Louise took offense at the nude man who had not the decency to wear a fig leaf. It was even suggested that I ‘faire disparaître sa nudité’ – make his nudity disappear – by painting over the offending parts.” He shook his head in disbelief.
“You should be honored,” I told him, deadpan. “It puts you in the company of Michelangelo.”
He stared at me and burst into laughter. “Ah, yes, those poor souls of the Last Judgement, not allowed to enter the afterlife unclothed.” I was pleased to see I had restored his good humor. “I refused, of course. I paint the bold deeds of men, not cater to the sensitivities of young ladies” – his voice rose to a falsetto as he pronounced this – “even if the lady in question is an empress.”
Girodet was, in fact, a good friend to women, like so many of his kind. But this request had offended his professional pride as a painter. The painting was left in its original state. When necessity compelled the governor of the Tuileries to display it again in the presence of the Empress, a potted palm or torchère was always tactfully placed in front of it.
For the party, Girodet had arranged for a cassoulet, a specialty of Larrey’s native Toulouse, as the main dish. As fragrant silver tureens were brought to the table following a salad of winter lettuces, Girodet proudly announced that his cook had even gone to the trouble of finding the best Toulousain goose sausage for it.
“All my favorite dishes!”
“I consulted Charlotte when planning the menu.” He raised his glass of champagne to her, and she smiled back. Women always smiled easily at Girodet.
Larrey took a forkful and savored it, testing nuances of flavors and textures, closed his eyes briefly in ecstasy and swallowed. He reached for a glass of the red wine that succeeded the champagne. “A feast for the gods,” he said to Girodet, with an open smile. As if receiving his benediction, the rest of us began to eat. It was good hearty fare for the cold of the night outdoors but too much for the warmth of the room. I soon put down my fork, as did the woman next to me. It was Charlotte Larrey.
She smiled in sympathy. “Dominique grew up eating food like this, but I’ve always found it heavy for my taste.”
I smiled back. “It’s delicious, but the room is so warm.” What a stupid thing to say, I thought.
She was gracious enough to ignore my gaffe. “Girodet told me you too are a painter. With whom did you study?”
“With Taunay.” My heart warmed to her: she did not assume I was an amateur, painting for a hobby, studying with a drawing master. She nodded approval. Gaining courage, I continued. “Antoine told me about your student days together.” Belatedly, I r
ealized that Antoine had told me about her love life and her politics, but not about her art. “What subjects do you paint?”
“Portraits. I was always drawn to people of the here and now, instead of mythologies. And you?”
“Landscapes. I love Paris, but one can feel too shut up here. Painting landscapes lets me leave for a little while, if only in my imagination.” I surprised myself when I said this. I had never articulated, before, just how stifling my situation had become, and how much my painting was an escape.
Larrey continued to eat cassoulet with appetite. He beamed at Girodet. “I wish we’d had this in Russia – we could have used something hot and sustaining on the retreat.”
Conversation halted at the introduction of this word never spoken aloud during the Empire. Larrey realized too late what he had just admitted – defeat, failure, the lack of warm food of even the humblest kind, such as this – beans, sausage and fat pork. He froze, mortified at what he’d said, a rare moment of discomfiture for this man. Embarrassed, he looked down at his plate. After a moment’s silence, we began to eat again, talking a little too loudly to provide cover for his embarrassment and give him time to recover. He continued to sit motionless, hands grasping knife and fork on either side of his plate, staring down at his portion, until one tear drop and then another fell onto the plate. I was amazed to realize that this tough veteran was crying. He lifted his head then, and his face was filled with pain. The sight of it again brought conversation to a halt. “It was terrible,” he said in a hoarse voice, staring with eyes that saw not us but unbearable memories. “Terrible.”
Charlotte exclaimed “Dominique!” in alarm and started to rise to go to him.
At the sound of her voice, he snapped back to the present, the dinner table and the celebration, shook his head slightly to rid it of memories, like a housemaid shaking a dust mop, and motioned her to sit down again. Putting down his fork and knife, he raised his glass in a toast to her. She summoned up a smile in return, though her eyes were serious and watchful.
Soon after the details of the truth of the Russian campaign started to trickle back to us despite Bonaparte’s best efforts to suppress them. Larrey had not exaggerated.
France’s armies continued to suffer defeat. Half a million veteran troops lost in Russia could not be replaced. Young conscripts hastily trained and ill prepared for battle were no match for the seasoned armies of the enemies of France. Larrey returned to duty. Bonaparte’s star was descending, taking France with him. At home, Antoine grew more and more gloomy and his mother, ever sensitive to her son’s moods, followed suit. His drawing of The Burning of Moscow, showing French soldiers rescuing women and children from the fires set by Russian boyars during the occupation was turned down as a subject for the Galerie de Diane. Too much of the truth was now known for even Antoine’s skills to be able to put a good face on it. Without a major subject to work on, without his beloved Emperor’s face to paint and deeds to chronicle, he had lost his main purpose in life. However, portrait commissions continued to come in.
That spring, I was surprised to receive a letter from General and Madame Legrand, with whom I had had little contact since my marriage. They had written to Gros to commission a portrait of their son, it said, and would be coming the following Wednesday to talk with him. They hoped they would see me. They had chosen him not only for his fine reputation but also because of his connection to me. I smiled ruefully – I had brought my husband a commission. I did not know whether to be glad or sad about this particular one.
The Legrands had aged in the five years since their son’s death. The General had suffered wounds during the retreat from Moscow, from which he never fully recovered. His hair was completely grey and he moved slowly and stiffly, like a man much older than his fifty-one years. There was a noticeable tremor in Madame’s face and hands. I tried not to show the dismay I felt. Madame Legrand smiled sadly when she saw I was wearing the ring she had given me, and I responded with the warm embrace that had been my habitual greeting to her. Both of us had tears in our eyes when we drew apart. She held my arm as we walked the few steps into the salon – even for so short a distance, her steps were slow and uncertain, and my heart turned with pity. She kept me beside her on the sofa as the General, seated in a chair across from my husband, told him they wished to have Charles portrayed full-length in his cuirassier’s uniform standing next to his horse. Antoine suggested a landscape background and asked if there were a portrait from which he could take Charles’s face. The General turned to his wife, who drew from her bag a miniature wrapped in one of those handkerchiefs edged with black lace she had carried ever since his death. Her hands were trembling so much that I took it from her, unwrapped it, and handed it to Antoine.
“It was painted when he was thirteen,” I explained calmly, “and it is a very good likeness.” I did not add that I had one Charles had given me.
Antoine studied it gravely for a minute, examining it, I knew, as much for the skill of the painter as for the features of the painted. When he looked up his smile was reassuring. “He was a beautiful young man,” he said warmly. “It will be an honor and a pleasure to paint his portrait.” Some of the sadness dropped from the old couple as pride took the place of sorrow. I gave Antoine a proud, tender look that seemed to take him by surprise.
There was a discreet knock at the door and the maid entered with tea and cakes. Madame Legrand ate and drank with hearty appetite, I was glad to see, and grew relaxed and animated, more like her old self. Antoine offered the General something stronger to drink and ventured to bring up one of the rare pieces of good news from the front. The visit had turned the corner from sorrow to hope, and the General decided it would be best to take their leave on this high note before their reserves of energy were overtaxed. Madame Legrand leaned on his arm only a little as they walked to their carriage.
Antoine and I returned to the salon, where he reverently wrapped the miniature to take to his studio. He leaned forward to kiss my cheek. “Don’t worry, my dear, your old man will do your young man proud.” Surprised, I stared at him. There was a wry twist to his smile. “Only those who die remain forever young and dashing. The rest of us decline into prosaic middle age, I’m afraid.”
Even as you will hung in the air unsaid.
I could not think what to reply to him. He shrugged slightly and walked out of the room.
“Come to the studio. I’ve finished his portrait.” The invitation came without preamble on a warm July morning as Antoine was getting dressed. He was not even looking at me, but paying particular attention to tying his cravat while looking in the mirror.
I was startled. He so rarely let visitors into his studio. Even I, his wife, could enter this sanctum only when invited. It was the rare colleague such as Girodet who could come at will; but as an old friend he knew how to time his visits.
“Charles’s portrait?” I did my best to match his offhand tone of voice, busying myself with laces and garters, not looking at Antoine either.
“Of course.” He smiled. “You knew him. I want to be sure I’ve caught him as best I can, with only the miniature to go on.”
I could understand – Antoine wanted his portraits to be more than a likeness, to have insight and the essence of the sitter’s character. But why had he waited until now when the portrait was finished, and not asked me before?
“Of course I’ll come if you really wish it.” Now we looked at each other for the first time. I smiled, and some of the tension went out of his face, but he still seemed wound up. “When would you like me to be there?”
“Now?” It was as abruptly said as his first statement. “I can wait for you.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I’ll be ready shortly.” He nodded his thanks and left our room.
I dressed as quickly as I could, with a sense of occasion, putting on my white dress trimmed with dark red ribbon and the garnet necklace and earrings. Antoine was pacing the hallway when I came down. During the cab ride to the studio, he looke
d out the window and avoided my eyes. “Antoine,” I asked sharply, “what’s wrong?” He shook his head and would not answer. I shrugged – I could not pry it out of him if he did not want to say. Finally we arrived at the rue des Fossés-Saint-Germain, down the street from the Théâtre de l’Odéon.
“Et voilà!”
I gasped. Charles stood before me, young and blond and vibrant, dressed in his uniform with its shining metal breastplate, wearing his gauntlets for riding, supporting his casque with its horsetail flowing against his leg. He leaned nonchalantly against his horse, his legs crossed like an English milord’s. He gaze was fixed on something in the distance, but I expected him to turn his head to look at me at any minute. His face, copied from the portrait of him as a thirteen-year-old, was too young for an officer of the Grande Armée, but not so much younger than the impressionable young cadet I had first seen weeping over the doctor in Jaffa.
I looked and looked, unable to tear my eyes away. The artist’s part of my mind was calmly cataloging parts of the painting – the beauty of the background landscape, the way the hand holding the helmet blended with the horse plume, the sitter’s gloves indicating that Gros had not been able to paint the hands from life, the abruptly foreshortened horse, which I recognized as Dagobert, a friend’s stallion. The wifely part of me was proud of my husband’s accomplishment. The girl I thought I no longer was came rushing back to embrace Charles, to celebrate his life and mourn his death all over again.
I turned my head to tell Antoine how beautiful it was and realized I was crying. I groped blindly in my purse for a handkerchief, until he came to my rescue with his own, with which he gently dabbed at my eyes and cheeks. I gave him a watery smile and took it from him, just as Charles had taken mine the day we met. Antoine brought me a chair and a glass of water. When I had recovered, he apologized, stammering a little. “I’m sorry – I did not mean to distress you – I thought it would be a pleasant surprise for you – I did not mean you to be overcome––”
An Artist in her Own Right Page 9