by Tony Bulmer
“In my bedroom Paul,” purred Joséphine. “As no doubt you are well aware.”
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 26
And so it was that the portrait of Lucretzia Sfarzoso stared down into the bedroom of Joséphine de Beauharnais-Bonaparte, witnessing the myriad liaisons of lovers intertwined. The director of the French Republic Vicomte Paul Barras was a regular visitor, as was Handsome Hussar Lieutenant, Hippolyte Charles. Although both men were quite aware of the others visits, the convention of manners dictated that neither man would pass comment to the other—to do so would indicate personal weakness, and a vulgar disregard for social nicety. Joséphine meanwhile, found that neither lover could satisfy her exclusively—as neither lust, nor power by itself was adequate to meet her needs. She needed more, much more than either man had to offer. She needed a man of uncommon power and virility. Unfortunately, her husband, the only man who could come close to satisfying her very exacting demands, was half a world away, engaged in his duties of state, and she doubted his enthusiasm for their marriage would ever match the passion he found in unbridled conquest.
The weeks passed into months, the months into years and all the while, the painting of Lucretzia Sfarzoso stared down from the bedroom wall, keeping watch over a golden web of conquest that stretched from the new dominions in the American west, to the lands of silk and spice in the East. General Bonaparte returned from his adventures in Italy, only to be dispatched once more, this time to the dusty disease ridden desserts of farthest Egypt, so that he might protect French trade interests and undermine the nefarious ambitions of the British Empire. It was work he was well suited to. As the slow years passed, the reputation of France’s greatest General grew ever larger, spreading across the world, until the name of Napoleon Bonaparte, the greatest warrior who ever lived, was on the lips of every person from Martinique to Timbuktu. Some spoke with fear, some spoke with adulation, but they all spoke together, their voices raised as one, until the name Bonaparte resounded across a world divided by intrigue and the ambition of cruel governance.
As her husband enjoyed his ascendancy, Joséphine found her own popularity surge too—every hostess in Paris clamoring for her attention, for no society event could be considered noteworthy without the attendance of Lady Joséphine Bonaparte. She attended grand soirées of every description, glamorous nights at the Opéra, fashionable theatrical openings, and fabulous parties in the bejeweled homes of the wealthy and powerful; then there were glittering afternoons of adulation amongst the great and good—garden parties, grand galas, and racetrack events—so many invitations, there was scarcely time to catch breath. When she had partied to the point of exhaustion, Joséphine took leave of the Parisian social scene, and headed for Château de Malmaison, her retreat in the country. Malmaison offered the catharsis of renovation and home decoration, for which Joséphine employed a team of the most fashionable decorators and architects, skilled professionals who renovated Malmaison, in the grand style of the Ancien Régime. The sight of the grand dwelling, restored to the glory of years past reminded Joséphine of the long heady days of luxury and gentility, before the vulgarity of revolution took hold of public taste.
As the Château sprang back to the grandness it had once enjoyed, Joséphine turned her attentions to the wild gardens that surrounded Malmaison. Hiring a team of gardeners, botanists and horticulturists from across Europe, she began collecting rare and exotic plants. She built a heated orangery large enough for 300 pineapple plants. Then, she created the finest rose garden in the world, with over 200 kinds of blooms, entifolias, damasks, bengals, gallicas and a dozen other species, of the rarest kind, it was as though the exotic blooms filled a need for something more, something beyond her closeted world of privilege and society. But there was no end to the need, and as the garden filled with the rich and exotic scents of a thousand blooms, Joséphine began collecting animals of every kind: cats, dogs, horses, sheep, and birds of every description. Then, once the novelty of domestic breeds had worn thin, there came the novelty of more exotic breeds: zebras, emus, gazelles, ostriches, antelopes and llamas. All of the animals were allowed to roam free in the grounds, which created much excitement locally, as unruly members of this great menagerie made frequent forays into nearby villages.
But, despite the very many comforts and entertainments that her life provided, the greatest pleasure Joséphine enjoyed, was the company of her small mongrel dog Fortuné. Part pug, part demon, with a hard snapping streak of street-urchin recalcitrance Fortuné had been gifted her by Lieutenant, Hippolyte Charles. The dog, being highly-strung- and possessing an extremely pampered and temperamental nature, disliked everyone he came into contact with—in fact, the only two people whom Fortuné resolutely refused to bite were his mistress and Lieutenant Charles. Fortuné reserved special vehemence for General Bonaparte, an adversary he had bitten on a number of occasions. This estrangement was magnified by the General’s long absences in the pursuit of his duties. It was after just such an absence, in the late summer of 1799, whilst sitting in the garden at the feet of his mistress that Fortuné suddenly scented the air. The late evening sun bounced through the trees, weaving an undulating latticework shadows on the dappled lawn. Fortuné sat to attention, sensing the approach of an old enemy. It was not, at first, easy to imagine whom that enemy might be, for the garden was alive with social discourse. A select gathering, of over three hundred of Parisian society’s most notable figures, enjoying the most lavishly catered party of the season: fine wine, haute cuisine and entertainers of every description—musicians, jugglers, fire-eaters, magicians and mimes in flamboyant costumes, mixing in with the guests, spreading joy and enchantment. Music, laughter and conversation filled the air, as servants scurried, and exotic animals ambled through the crowd, as tame as kittens.
Lieutenant, Hippolyte Charles was, as ever, in the finest of form, he looked so handsome and dashing in his Hussar uniform, he held court on the lawn, preening his whiskers and relating anecdotes to a crowd of admirers; his scurrilous tongue and rapacious wit holding rapt the attention of everyone within earshot.
Joséphine was by this time of day, more than a little giddy from the heady mix of champagne and the ceaseless waves of adulation lavished upon her from her adoring guests. How they complimented her, and her prowess as a hostess. Then, in the course of her social rounds, Joséphine found her self engaged in a somewhat ribald conversation with a pretty young woman named Elisabeth de Vaudey. Mademoiselle de Vaudey had a scurrilous taste for gossip and a ready wit that brought chuckles from all within earshot. Joséphine found her company most agreeable.
Mademoiselle de Vaudey had strong views on the subject of men, and for one so young had indulged quite gratuitously in affairs of every description. Although she was a woman of no small experience herself, Joséphine found the nature of the young woman’s conversation growing ever more scandalous until at last the young woman forwarded a question of the most personal and direct nature.
“Do you love your husband Madame Bonaparte?”
Joséphine felt eyes of the assembled company turn towards her. A heavy surge of adrenaline pounded through her, her bodice growing tighter, more constricting by the second, as the champagne roared in her brain.
Joséphine said, “In fashionable circles, it is improper, almost indecent, to be passionately in love with one's spouse Mademoiselle, but in order to know that one has to acquire a spouse first.”
The assembled company roared and clapped in approval.
Mademoiselle de Vaudey smiled prettily and bowed with the grace of one who has just received masterful instruction in the art of social combat.
Raising her glass in toast to the assembled company Joséphine felt the pressure of a hundred faces turning towards her, a paranoid vision of public nudity, and the certain knowledge that she was being judged and left wanting, flashed before her. Fortuné was racing in circles now, barking crazily, as though the animal could sense the approach of the dark winds of autumn, blustering in from the eastern skies. Josephi
ne shushed her dog, offering soft, reassuring words of comfort. But there was no consoling him, Fortuné barked ever louder. Joséphine turned her eyes to the sky—a soft rumble of distant thunder? She paused, drew breath, her bodice gripping ever tighter, clasping her in its pincer grip, until she felt sure she would pass out. The rumble was getting louder, unmistakable now, but it was not the rumble of approaching thunder, it was a sound far more terrifying, it was the sound of a column of troops, hard men on horseback approaching at speed.
The whole party could hear it now, gasps and exclamations abounded. The musicians in the bandstand came to a sudden and discordant coda, they lowered their instruments, and exchanged uncertain glances. From the tree-lined avenue there came the pound of hooves beating furiously across sun-baked earth, the jangle of tack and the whinnying protests of hard-riding mounts moving together in close formation. A harsh, unintelligible command brought the unseen column to a stamping, snorting halt and a ripple of excited conversation ran out across the garden.
Josephine’s eyes bulged wide. She felt her fingers fall away from the stem of her glass. Clasping her hands to her breast, she struggled to find breath. It is him. He has returned from certain death, to move amongst us once more…
The crowd surged forwards now, hurrying towards the gates, rushing to make sight of the new arrivals. A cry went up, then another and another. He is here! The conqueror returns!
Joséphine caught sight of Paul Barras hurrying away to the rear, accompanied by Thérésa Tallien—the treacherous little slattern had got her hooks in him at last. But where was brave Hippolyte? Nowhere to be seen—the scoundrel had deserted her, in her time of need. How predictable, how selfish, how thoroughly disgustingly low, that he could slink away so easily, when she needed him most.
As confusion reigned, the General made his appearance, riding into the garden solo astride a long-maned stallion that shone silver in afternoon sun. The stallion half reared, but the General reined him in, kept his movements clipped and controlled. The horse circled into the crowd, panting and snorting and blowing with contempt. The General sat proud, in immaculate battledress, his hat cocked at a rakish angle, his black eyes running over the crowd with silent contempt.
The cheering grew louder and louder, hands raised in thunderous applause. Shouts of bravo echoed and reverberated, sending flocks of birds reeling high into the fast approaching dusk. The General moved forwards now, his horse making a show of their approach, with snappy pure-bred footfalls. The General’s face was dark, implacable, filled with the monstrous terror of battle and the unseen demons of the cursed lands of Egypt.
Joséphine forced herself forwards, her legs almost paralyzed with trepidation. She held her arms wide, “You have returned to me my love, returned at last.”
The Generals black eyes stared through her, with a strange and deadly finality, as though his entire being had been subject to a dark and unholy possession. The long-maned stallion reared once more. The crowd gasped, then pressed forward, with renewed vigor—a forest of hands reaching out so they might touch this god like horseman. But the dark-eyed god was in no mood to grant favors to those who would venerate his coming. The General rose above them, solitary and aloof, transcendent to the needs of man. Joséphine watched helplessly as Elisabeth de Vaudey reached up out of the morass seething humanity. Watched as the pretty young creature took the reins of the horse and held a calming hand to the creature’s muzzle. The horse champed and snorted and rolled its eyes with crazed abandon. But as the pretty young fingers caressed its fevered cheek a startling transformation was affected upon its savage demeanor.
Joséphine drew back, her hands falling slowly to her sides. The band struck up a patriotic tune and a cheer rippled across the garden. There would be no return to the days of innocent acquaintance. No return to the courtship of hearts entwined. The world had moved forwards, into a darker phase out of sync with the melodious and youthful past. All that was gone—gone forever. Joséphine stood back as the crowd moved around her. As she stood, alone in the crowd, her thin summer dress feeling the first breeze of autumn, the words of Mademoiselle de Vaudey echoed in her head. Do you love your husband?
No, thought Joséphine, she had never loved her husband, and now she wanted to, it was too late.
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 27
1799 Château de Malmaison
The time of the Directory was past, thought Bonaparte with satisfaction. De Barras and his cronies were finished—as irrelevant as Robespierre and his Jacobin brethren. These were perilous times for the French Republic, and for the General too, but the exile of conquest had hardened and educated him to the ways of firm government. It was an education that had convinced him that the weak and self-serving whims of the Directory needed to be supplanted in haste, by the strong hand of leadership, the leadership of a man such as himself. To this affect the General had made important allies in government, weak, vain men who would be dispensed with as readily as they changed their allegiances.
As he lay in bed, with the soft afternoon air moving gently though the bedroom window, Bonaparte saw the future more clearly than ever he had seen it before. The jackals at the Directory had already begun turning on each other, soon their treachery would be at an end. A new consulate of the Republic would rise up from the ashes and he Napoleon Bonaparte would be their leader.
The gilded face of Lucretzia Sfarzoso looked down on Bonaparte, as he lay in bed, contemplating the future of the worlds greatest-ever Republic. The Continental System would prevail, a united Europe, joined in a union of liberty, equality and a common brotherhood of purpose, the great, antiquated empires of the past would be swept into the gutter of history. The British and their infernal kingdom of aristocratic privilege, The pompous Austrians and their empire of excess, both of them vanquished before the united spirit of Europe.
The girl with the ringlet hair looked down at him from the picture frame, a smile of approval twitching at the corners of her mouth. It seemed to the General that the girl was alive, offering in her watchful gaze divine validation of his plans. The General frowned. Why could his wife not offer such loyalty? Why, when he had offered her everything that it was possible for a woman to need—wealth, power, his undying love, had she chosen in her bloody-minded stupidity, to forgo his love in favor of her whoreish nature?
The smile of Lucretzia Sfarzoso seemed to disappear, replaced instead by an enigmatic stare, neither happy, nor sad, without need or demand—an eternal countenance, satisfied by the very act of existence. Was it possible that a woman such as this had ever existed, or could exist again? wondered the General. As he looked up into her endless eyes he knew now why he had acquired the painting, it was not because the girl reminded him of his wife, neither was it because he found her more than moderately attractive. The reason he had sent the painting to Joséphine was so that she might absorb the paintings character, become more like this mysterious woman of the Renaissance past. Alas, his needs and desires had gone unnoticed—the spirit of his love neglected—until it had become strangled by the vanity of his wife’s unending need to buy happiness—the home renovations—the landscape gardening—the menagerie of animals, nothing had given her fulfillment, not even her affairs with the doltish Vicomte and the pretty little Hussar. She thought her indiscretions had gone unnoticed, she was wrong. Did she think him a fool?
He realized now, his love had been a vision. He had reached for an impossible hope, and just as he had closed his fingers around his dream, it had vanished.
As his thoughts meandered into the same intangible realm as his hopes of love, the girl reentered the chamber—nude.
Mademoiselle de Vaudey was quite the contrast to his wife, half her age at least and her lithe young body so alive with lustful energy. The General’s dark eyes followed her as she pranced around the room, like a mischievous wood nymph. He had no feelings for this girl, no love, no respect, no joy in her spring-like demeanor. He felt no sense of achievement in such idle conquest, no pride in the desire
she lavished upon him. Every time he closed his eyes, the tumult of battle reached up towards him, out of the blackness, the tortured cries of the dying ringing in his ears, and all around, the stench of unholy turmoil—more real than the transient flesh that crawled over his bones.
The girl danced coquettishly across the bedroom, her young body glowing with the energy of sex. “Am I your mistress?” she asked, as she paused at the end of the bed, her pert young breasts thrusting towards him like un-ripened fruit.
“Power is my mistress Mademoiselle, don’t ever forget it.”
“It is said that power is mightiest aphrodisiac of all,” said the girl, her voice sulky, provocative.
“Whom ever said that is quite wrong, power is far more enjoyable than the act of carnal satisfaction.”
Mademoiselle de Vaudey pouted. “Perhaps you are dissatisfied with my attentions General Bonaparte—could it be that you are bored by my attentions?
The General gave a derisive snort.
“I hear that the concubines of Egypt are much advanced in the art of lovemaking, perhaps you would share with me the secrets of their art?”
“Of all the whores in Alexandria Mademoiselle, none would prove your equal.”
The girl stood preening at the end of the bed, examining her nails, making sight of her ass in the looking glass, taking comfort in its tight curvaceous line. She smiled, not fully understanding the gravity of the Generals comment. She fluttered her eyelashes in a manner she had practiced many times, sometimes alone, sometimes with boys of her acquaintance. She parted her rosebud lips to pass comment then paused, hearing the sound of rapidly approaching footfalls.
The angry steps drew nearer, mounting the narrow staircase that led to their lovers refuge. Every footstep caused a surge of fear in Mlle de Vaudey’s fast beating heart. She scanned the room with desperate eyes, searching in vain for a place of refuge. Clutching instinctively at a robe draped over the bedpost she hissed, “Someone approaches—do you hear—who might it be?