The Fine Art of Murder

by Tony Bulmer

  “I am your conqueror old man, General Napoleon Bonaparte.”

  “A General? It cannot be possible. You are a boy.”

  The General suppressed a sneer and paced forwards with predatory steps, circling the old man. “Alexander of Macedon ruled the world at thirty monsieur Doge—so I have a couple of years of work ahead, I grant you that.”

  “The Republic of Venice has ruled the world for a thousand years General.”

  “And now that reign is at an end Monsieur Doge.”

  “I don’t like your tone young man, nor do I like the fact you disrespect the Grand home of the Venetian Republic, my people tell me you rode a horse into the Palace is that true General?”

  The General paced around the Doges chair a full circuit, before responding, “You do not like horses Monsieur Doge?”

  “Creatures of the field have their place General,” hissed the Doge wetly. “The terms of our treaty with the French Republic make no allowance for such disrespectful intrusions into our place of government.”

  “I think you misunderstand the terms of the treaty Monsieur Doge. Do you hear that noise?” The General paused, cupping a hand to his ear lightly, as though hearing a distant call from a heavenly trumpet.

  “I hear nothing but the carousing of a drunken rabble, calling out from the gutter.” snapped the Doge his wet voice heavy and abrasive now.

  “You are quite wrong, ” replied the General. “That sound you can hear is the sound of the people, the citizens of Venice crying out with joy upon the day of their liberation.”

  “Liberation? What talk is this of liberation, we had an agreement Sir, a treaty of mutual alliance between our two great Republics!”

  “Ah, the treaty,” nodded The General earnestly. “The treaty is as worthless as your chattel Republic monsieur Doge. “Both you and your lands now belong to the Republic of France.” The General folded his arms and smiled then he said, “To preserve your public dignity, before your rapidly approaching demise we can pretend otherwise, but the reality is, you will now do exactly as you are told, or you will quickly find that your ignoble head is rolling down the steps of this precious Palace that you love so much. Are we clear on that subject.”

  The Doge was suddenly overcome by an attack of coughing so extreme that it was some minutes before his attendants could restore him into an upright position in his throne. Then at length the Doge wheezed weakly, “You will never get away with this monstrous coup!”

  “I already have monsieur Doge,” growled the General, “Now on your feet.” The general snapped his fingers and The Doges attendants began prying their master from his throne, so that he might stand, rather unsteadily on his own two feet.

  “Come here,” ordered the General, “Take a look out of the window.”

  The Doge shambled forwards reluctantly, supported by his attendants, whilst the General loomed menacingly by the window. As the Doge paused, a single nod of the Generals head brought his guards closer, the bayonets on their muskets urging the old man forward to the edge of the balcony. In the square below ten thousand cheering faces turned towards them, a thunderous and triumphant roar echoing endlessly. Flocks of startled pigeons wheeled and dived, as the roar grew louder.

  The General waved to the crowd, looking over the balconies edge into the Piazza below he said, “It is a long way down monsieur Doge,”

  The old man swayed unsteadily, his attendants clutching at his elbows to keep him upright, “What do you want of me you monster,” he breathed weakly.

  The General smiled, and looked out over the riotous field of humanity. “I want your horses.”

  “Horses? Take all the horses you want!” whispered the Doge. “Our stables have the finest animals in the world.”

  “You misunderstand me monsieur Doge, I want those horses, smiled the General pointing to the four giant golden horses adorning the façade of St Mark's Basilica.

  The Doges eyes widened with horror, his knees trembling to the point of collapse. “But those horses are sacred to the Republic of Venice, they were liberated from Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade in 1204 they are priceless! They represent the dignity and pride of the Venetian Republic!”

  The General smiled ever broader, “And that is precisely why I will be taking them to Paris monsieur Doge.”

  THE FINE ART OF MURDER 24

  Joséphine de Beauharnais Bonaparte 1797

  Joséphine had a clear vision of what married life with General Bonaparte would entail, from the moment Vicomte de Barras had suggested it. The Vicomte was the consummate gentleman, and quite the most powerful man in France. If there was one thing that Joséphine valued more than fashionable popularity it was men of great wealth and power, how she enjoyed the priapic attentions they lavished upon her! The General however, was a precocious bore, whose cloying need and provincial attitudes were enough to test the patience and social fortitude of any woman, let alone a woman of ambition. Marriage to the General had its compensations however—he made a dashing escort in his smart uniform, providing he kept his mouth shut of course. Fortunately however, his duties often prevented him from attending events of social importance. A double advantage, as his absence not only prevented the social embarrassment of the General making his oafish opinions public, it also added a mysterious air of martyrdom to a ladies social standing. It was a status Joséphine greatly enjoyed, as it allowed her to fulfill her appetites without interruption.

  Soon after her new husbands departure on the Italian campaign, Joséphine decided that as a woman of substance, it was her social responsibility to purchase a country retreat in the manner that was once again becoming popular amongst the more fashionable members of society. Vicomte de Barras had been most accommodating of course, guiding her towards a number of properties that would suit her requirements and after several lusty excursions, fueled by fine wine and sexual intrigue, the Vicomte finally brought her to Rueil-Malmaison, an enchanting tree-shaded locale of the most pastoral beauty. It was here they found the Château de Malmaison nestled most fetchingly in 150 acres of enchanting woods and meadows. The chateau had fallen into some disrepair of course, having being vacated somewhat hastily by its previous residents during the revolution.

  Joséphine knew at once that the Château de Malmaison was perfect, only seven miles from Paris, it was ideally situated to provide a retreat from the persistent vulgarity of the Parisian social scene and now the priggish proletarian elements of the revolutionary movement had been subdued by force, it was once again fashionable to live in comfort. And thus it was, with the able assistance of The Vicomte de Barras that Joséphine purchased the estate at Malmaison for the sum of 300,000 francs, a bargain price, even when one considered the level of renovations required to restore the house to its pre-revolutionary glory.

  Expenses on this new home began mounting quickly, but Director Barras was most helpful in advancing monies for the projects funding. Meanwhile, as work on the estate progressed apace, an avalanche of love letters began arriving from her new husband almost before had departed to bring the rebellious republics of the Italian Peninsula to order. The love notes were of a gushing and sentimental nature. Josephine found such tokens both amusing and appalling. There were other gifts too, pressed flowers, a disgusting locket containing hair and of course the painting, a rather ugly and unfashionable work of the Florentine school, such as one might find in the drabber boutiques of the Rue du Renard.

  Now, laying in bed, in her new country home, Joséphine stared at the painting the young General had sent her from Italy. Rather small she thought, not as grand as the very many paintings the General had sent to Vicomte de Barras and other members of the Directory. Perhaps her new husband thought she did not warrant such generous attention? Perhaps he thought he could neglect her?

  He was mistaken—sadly mistaken to entertain such notions. Joséphine pouted, her porcelain face breaking a frown, as her mongrel dog, Fortuné leapt on to the bed and yapped indignantly. It was almost as though the dear li
ttle creature could read her thoughts. Fortuné did not like the General. On the night of his new master’s marriage to his beloved mistress, the little dog sank his teeth deep into the General’s leg, an event that had caused an insurmountable rift between the small dog and his new master. Joséphine found her pet’s dislike for her new husband quite charming. Given the choice, she much preferred the company of her dog to that of the General. In addition, she found endless amusement in the competitive dynamic that the wedding night biting incident had created between man and dog.

  Joséphine stared at the painting of the girl, it glowed richly, the sumptuous yet restrained colors reaching out to her—reminiscent of another painting she had seen in the Louvre. The young woman’s smile was enigmatic, mysterious thought Joséphine. But there was something more, the woman’s face had a louche dissolute look, almost whorish in her demeanor, and yet she had a golden crucifix—a symbol of redemption, hanging over her bosom. The woman in the painting had an air of insolence thought Joséphine —staring out of the painting as though she was passing silent comment on the infidelities she was witnessing.

  “Do you not find the girls stare insolent Hippolyte?”

  The figure in bed next to her looked up from the letter he was reading.

  “You ask my opinion on insolence? Do you not want me to read the letter from your husband? It would appear he is a man of passion, as well as duty.”

  “My dear Hippolyte, there lies the problem, for I am no fan of duty, as well you know.”

  “I know that you more than make up for that with your passion Madam.”

  “Madam? I should have you thrown out in the street for addressing me thus.” Hippolyte Charles, a young Lieutenant in the regiment of Hussars, had been tasked by his superiors, to provide a personal escort to General Bonaparte’s new wife, to guard and protect her, from the more unwholesome vices to be found in the city of Paris. It was a task that the lieutenant had thrown himself into, with the greatest possible enthusiasm, although he suspected, that if his commander was to discover just how enthusiastic he had been in the execution of his duties, there was a very real chance that he might be reassigned to frontier patrol, in the mountainous nether regions of the deepest south. It was a thought that defied contemplation. Lieutenant Charles perused General Bonaparte’s letter at length. The letter was filled with the wettest, most feeble-minded love talk that he had ever witnessed, so cloyingly bad was the nature of the writing, that the young lieutenant found himself laughing heartily at the Generals foolish and infantile love talk.

  “What ever made you marry the man?” wondered the Lieutenant incredulously, as he tossed the letter carelessly onto the floor, “He writes like a cretinous Corsican clod-pole.”

  “My husband is a man of ambition,” responded Rose haughtily.

  “Ambition you say, then he is no match for you my Lady.”

  “Again you push the limits of your position Lieutenant, were you not so advanced in the arts of love, I would have you thrashed for your insolence.”

  Lieutenant Charles tugged thoughtfully on his long black whiskers, “You are an intolerable minx Lady Bonaparte, an attribute I find moderately endearing, but tell me little Rose, when your half-wit husband has a flower as beautiful as you to call his wife why on earth would he choose to call you by the name of Joséphine?”

  “Because it pleases him.”

  “Ahh, pleasure, an area where I can claim a modest degree of expertise,” laughed the lieutenant roguishly. Suddenly, he disappeared beneath the bedcovers and began roaring like a wild beast.

  “Restrain yourself Lieutenant, I cannot possibly enjoy your attentions whilst the girl in the painting my husband has sent to me is staring down from the mantle with her judgmental gaze.

  “You mistake her gaze for judgment, when really it is lust. She stares down at us so that she might witness your ravishment.”

  “Your relentless nature is a quality I greatly admire Lieutenant.”

  “Just one of the very many services I provide my Lady. Would you like me to turn the painting to face the wall, so that we might avert the gaze of the lustful lady that your husband has so thoughtfully inflicted upon us?”

  “No, let her watch our lovemaking.”

  Lieutenant Hippolyte Charles let out a throaty chuckle, “You would have the lady watch our lovemaking—that is a most invigorating amusement lady Joséphine, let the Lady of sin revel in our passion!”

  THE FINE ART OF MURDER 25

  Vicomte de Barras surveyed Château de Malmaison from the garden by the lake. “I confess madam Bonaparte, you have excelled yourself, the renovations are more advanced than I anticipated. However, you must know that the General will not be pleased.”

  “How very formal you are Paul,” mocked Joséphine lightly.

  Vicomte De Barras gave a cough, “I managed to absorb the purchase price of this mansion of yours into department budgets, but you must realize that the unprecedented level of expenditure you have lavished on these renovations has raised questions amongst the other members of the Directory. The costs you have invoked will have to be set against your husbands salary.”

  “Surely you are well equipped to deal with such matters of state Paul, after all, my husband is rapidly becoming a national hero.”

  “There is no place for hero’s in this new Republic of ours, the satisfaction of duty well served should be enough for any man.”

  Joséphine Bonaparte laughed, her eyes dark and derisive. “You sound like a pompous ass Paul, the new Republic is the same as the old. The time of revolution is as dead as the terror that served it.”

  “I must caution you madam, there are those who would consider such counter-revolutionary statements as treasonable.”

  “You surprise me Paul. If perchance you are referring to those odious little prigs who sit on the board with you, their pockets are too heavy with the treasures of the Italian commonwealth, to chase after the decorators of their greatest General.”

  “We live in treacherous times madam, be cautious in your affairs.”

  Again Joséphine Bonaparte laughed, more lightly this time, finally she said, “You really will have to excuse me Paul, but I find your counsel regarding affairs rather entertaining, given the rich history of mutual lust that lies between us.”

  “I am glad you find such matters amusing madam, but your indiscretions are the talk of Paris. Think of your reputation.”

  “How thoroughly charming that you should be concerned about my reputation. I seem to remember, just a few short years ago, you had little thought for such things—you remember Paul, don’t you, those long nights you spent screwing me in Carmes prison, whilst my husband Alexandre awaited the guillotine in the Place de la Révolution?”

  Vicomte de Barras coughed loudly and averted his eyes, to the imposing towers of Château de Malmaison, “Alexandre de Beauharnais was a talentless and inebriated ass. There are many who would argue that Robespierre's blade did you a favor madam, and I will remind you that you might well have joined your precious Alexandre, were it not for my timely intervention.”

  “Forever the selfless diplomat Paul, perhaps that is why you sent my brave Napoleon on so dangerous a mission, to the lawless Republics of the Italian heartland?”

  “Your husband is a dangerous troublemaker madam. He is well suited to the company of the common soldiery. But I am afraid he is immune to both cannon fire and sharp weapons of every description. No doubt he will return from the dangerous endeavors which he has been engaged, bolder and more egotistical than ever he was.”

  “You sound jealous Paul, perhaps you shouldn’t have introduced us.”

  “I had no idea you would marry the man! You must be ten years his senior!”

  “Six years,” said Joséphine coldly.

  “You are a cold, ambitious bitch Rose, but you have met your match with Bonaparte, that ruthless little Corsican bastard will cast you aside like a soiled rag when he finds out about your little affair with that Hussar Lieutenant
—what is his name now—Hippolyte Charles? I hear that handsome little nitwit has screwed every piece of ass in Paris.”

  “If that is the case Paul, you have much in common.”

  “You have a clever mouth madam, bring it here so that I might make use of it.”

  “Really Paul, you are as priapic as ever you were. Do you not realize I am newly married to a man who loves me, a man who will be richer and more famous than anything France has yet seen?”

  The Vicomte gave Joséphine a dark look, his lips straining to prevent a sneer. “The world of government finance is complex madam, and in a world of such financial complexity you would be well advised to remember who controls the purse strings to your life of indulgence.”

  Joséphine paused to admire the view of the grand house rising up in silhouette against the builders scaffold. The distant clatter of workmen engaged in their duties carried across the verdant lawns, reverberated across the lake then faded softly into the distant woods. “If my dear husband could hear you speak thus, I have no doubt he would strike you for your insolence Vicomte De Barras.”

  The Vicomte gave a wolfish smile, “Come, come, madam, now it is you who stands on formality.”

  Joséphine watched as her mongrel dog, Fortuné chased crows across the lawn. “My husband loves me, he bought me a painting, a most beautiful painting,” said Joséphine lightly.

  Again the sneer strained at the Vicomte’s lips, “How thoroughly charming, that he would do such a thing, perhaps you would allow me to see this painting that he has gifted you. I have a degree of experience in matters of an esthetic nature, and I would be delighted to advise you on how you might display your new acquisition.”

  “I have no doubt your capacity for esthetic judgment is as overrated as your other so called specialties Paul.”

  Vicomte de Barras gave a throaty chuckle. “I have had very few complaints about my abilities, I can assure you of that Lady Bonaparte. Now, tell me, where can we find this painting of yours?”