Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe

by Sandra Gulland

  “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, in 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 Emilie.” “My Emilie?” 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 Emilie 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 Emilie 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, Emilie following. “It’s such a lovely day, I thought a picnic might be nice,” I said, embracing each in turn. Emilie 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, L
avalette pushed the bouquet at her. Suddenly the girls fell silent.

  We came to the spot I had in mind. Caroline, Emilie 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. Emilie 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 Emilie on top of her head. “I think we can go back now,” I said.

  [Undated]

  Louis looked surprised that Emilie 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.”

  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.

  Evening.

  A wind has risen, but not in the right direction. Bonaparte watches the sky. Hourly, from the widow’s walk, he scans the horizon with a spyglass, searching for signs of the enemy.

  May 14.

  This morning, bringing my cup of hot chocolate himself, Bonaparte informed me I would not be going.

  A breeze billowed the curtains, filling the room with the rancid smell of the harbour. “Going where?” I asked, confused, pulling the covering sheet over me. I was naked, my sleeping gown tangled somewhere in the sheets. Since reaching Toulon Bonaparte had become even more ardent than usual. Being back in active command had brought out a vigorous energy in him.

  He sat down on the bed. I moved over to make room for him. He put his hand on my shoulder, as if to console me, and it was then that I knew what he was going to say. “Bonaparte, no. Please don’t leave me behind.” I felt tears pressing. Stupid tears.

  “It’s too dangerous—the English are out there. They’ll likely attack.”

  It was silent in the room but for the ticking of a clock. “You never told me that.”

  He took my hand, kissed it. “When we get to Egypt, I’ll send a ship back for you. La Pomone, if you like.”

  I pressed my head against his shoulder. “It frightens me to be separated from you, Bonaparte.” “What is there to be afraid of?” His family, I thought.

  May 15.

  I sit idle as everyone scurries about, preparing for the “crusade.” They are filled with excitement, and I, with a feeling of sadness … and dread.

  May 18.

  The flags are blowing to the east. Eugène came running up the stairs to my suite. “We’re leaving at dawn,” he cried out breathlessly, his cheeks rosy.

  May 19.

  All night I could not sleep. At the first hint of light, the first crow of a cock, I slipped out of bed, went to the window. The masts in the harbour were bobbing in the breeze. The weather vane pointed east.

  “Where’s Fauvelet?” Bonaparte jumped out of bed, fully alert. I helped him into his uniform. He had been shaved the night before, in anticipation of the morning. A knock, three knocks. “There he is.”

  “General, they’re—”

  Bonaparte bolted out the door, buttoning his long linen trousers.

  I sat down at my toilette table and regarded myself in the glass. The morning light was cruel, the worry lines clear.

  Another knock. Fauvelet again, apologetic. “Twenty minutes, Madame.”

  Twenty! Mimi performed a small miracle, transforming me from an anxious woman who had had no sleep into the elegant wife of General Bonaparte.

  Eugène burst in and struck a heroic pose. “Ready?” There was a call from the first floor. “Coming!” He leapt down the stairs, his hat flying off behind him.

  As we came out into the morning sun, a great cry went up. People were waving flags, dressed in a colourful assortment of feast-day clothes. A cluster of people surrounded a man with a board hanging from his shoulders that proclaimed, “Final bets here.” The locations were listed along with the odds. I dared not look for fear my expression might give the true destination away. Portugal, I kept telling myself. They are sailing to Portugal. The crowd cheered, began singing “Chant du départ.”

  The moment I’d been dreading came. I took Eugène’s hands, examined his face, his soft eyes, the freckles across his nose, thinking: I will always remember him thus, if …

  “How does one tell a soldier to be careful?” I asked, choking up.

  “Maman.” Squirming, uncomfortable in front of Louis and all his shipmates.

  I kissed him quickly, before he could escape. “I’ll be joining you.” Soon.

  Bonaparte met me on the railing. I held my handkerchief to my nose. Everyone was watching us, I knew.

  “Stay in Toulon until it’s clear that we have made it,” he said.

  “There’s a chance you might turn back?”

  He stroked a lock of hair out of my eyes. “If we’re forced to.”

  By the English. “Oh, Bonaparte, I hate this.” I pressed my cheek against the rough wool of his jacket—that same frayed jacket he’d worn in Italy.

  “If you need anything, ask Joseph,” he said, his voice thick
. “I’ve told him to give you forty thousand a year.”

  “But I will be joining you in a few months.” Why this talk of a year? “You’ll go to Plombières for the treatment?” I nodded. The treatment for infertile women.

  “When it’s safe, I’ll send La Pomone for you.” He kissed me lightly on the cheek. “And then we’ll get on with our project.” “General Bonaparte?”

  “One moment, Fauvelet.” A gust of wind blew hair in my eyes. I held onto my hat. Bonaparte put his hand on my shoulder. “If I should—”

  “No, Bonaparte!” The angels watched over him; I had to believe that.

  He stopped, his eyes glistening. I pressed my face into his neck. Please: “Take care.”

  I was escorted to a balcony of the Marine Intendancy building, where a number of women were sitting, officers’ wives. They shifted so that I might have the best chair. The paymaster came out, carrying a tray of spyglasses. “Oh,” we all exclaimed in unison. And then laughed.

  I took a spyglass, searched the decks of L’Orient. “I see your husband,” I told Madame Marmont, a young bride of only sixteen. But no Eugène, no Bonaparte. “By the helm.” I showed her how to adjust the glass, so that the focus might be clear.

  She put her glass down, blinded by tears. “It’s hopeless.”

  Gunshot! The crowd on the shore began singing La Marseillaise, and we all began to sing along. I pressed my glass to my eyes. Finally I spotted Bonaparte in a cluster of men at the helm. I recognized him by his hat. My heart surged with pride to see him. I searched the faces for Louis and Eugène.

  “I put my money on Sicily,” one of the women said.

  “I’m sure it’s Africa,” Madame Marmont said. “Else why would they take so much water?”

  “Even I don’t know,” I lied.

  As the ships weighed anchor, the cannons in the fort were fired and a military band on the shore broke into a brassy hymn. The warships and the fort exchanged salutes. The smell of gunpowder filled the air.