“I think it’s nice to have family close by,” Madame de Crény said.
Thérèse caught my eye. “Not always,” I confessed.
“Oh?” They looked at me expectantly.
“You know you can always trust a Glory,” Minerva said, sensing my hesitation.
And then I broke down, told all: how Joseph had vowed to break up my marriage; how Bonaparte’s mother called me “the old woman” (and worse!); how Pauline spied on me; how I’d finally come to understand that to Corsicans a wife was nothing, that it was the husband’s family that truly mattered, and that my husband’s love for me and my children had provoked a profoundly jealous hatred in them.
“Mon Dieu, I’ve heard about vendettas, but … I had no idea,” Madame de Crény exclaimed, swinging her feet.
“I’m rather surprised by the fuss over your business dealings. I thought your husband’s uncle was an army supplier.”
Fesch? I nodded. As well as Joseph. And Lucien.
“And not Pauline and Victor Leclerc?”
I rolled my eyes, well, yes … them too.
“Is it true they were recalled from Milan?”
“For filling their pockets, I heard.”
“I heard they bought an estate in Italy.”
“And are looking to buy a property up near Senlis.”
“I thought it was the other brother who was looking for a property near Senlis. What’s his name? Lucien. The young one with the thick spectacles.”
“But didn’t he just buy that big town house on Grand-Rue Vert?” “On a deputy’s salary?”
Fortunée Hamelin whistled. “I love this champagne.” “Did you hear about Fortunée’s adventure, Josephine?” “She walked down the Champs-Élysées—naked to her waist.” “They dared me.” Fortunée Hamelin looked smug. “She practically started a riot.”
“I still don’t understand why,” Fortunée said. “It’s not as if people haven’t seen a woman before.”
“You should have read all the articles in the journals.”
“Speaking of journals.” Minerva put down her cards. “Did any of you read that article in La Révélateur? Something about the Directors having known for a week about the defeat of our fleet?”
“What defeat?”
“That’s what I wanted to know.”
They turned to me. Tears filled my eyes. Please, no, I didn’t want to be the one to tell them.
November 4.
Rumours that Alexandria has been burned, that Bonaparte is in retreat.
November 16.
Rumours that Bonaparte’s army is faltering, that he’s surrounded.
December 12.
My manservant returned from the market in tears. “General Bonaparte has been killed in Cairo!”
Immediately, I set out for the palace to see Barras. I had resolved not to read the journals, much less to believe them, but this account was impossible to ignore—I had to know.
The journey to the palace was a slow one. There were signs of disturbance, more so as I neared the market. Several times my carriage was recognized. One man doffed his hat as if for a funeral procession. I sat back, out of view.
What if Bonaparte had been killed?
I burst into tears the moment I saw Barras—in spite of the presence of his guests—for I saw the answer in his eyes. My knees gave way.
As if from a distance I could hear Barras giving out orders for cold cloths and salts. He felt my pulse, pulled back my eyelids. “Please,” I said, struggling to sit up. I felt bile in my throat. A circle of faces was looking down on me, men’s faces.
“Help me get her onto the bed in the next room,” I heard Barras say. He pulled me up. My feet were comically disobedient, my legs like those of a rag doll. Inexplicably, I began to giggle.
“She’ll be all right in a moment,” Barras said. “She’s stronger than she looks.”
I was laid out on the bed, my ties loosened, a comforter pulled over me. I closed my eyes, turned my head. “Tell me,” I said. “Tell me what you know.”
His name meant “Desert Lion,” he’d told his men.
“I didn’t know that,” I said. Bonaparte had dreamt of riding an elephant, of wearing a turban. “Go on.”
Soldiers! he’d called out. From these pyramids, forty centuries of history look down upon you!
“That’s beautiful. He had a way of putting things.”
He’d entered Cairo with the Koran in one hand, Thomas Paine’s The Rights of Man in the other. Triumphant.
“He had a great sense of theatre,” I said, closing my eyes, imagining his feeling of exultation at such a moment, what it must have been like for him, his soul infused with the spirit of destiny, walking in the footsteps of Alexandre the Great, of Caesar.
He believed himself chosen. I opened my eyes. “Barras, he can’t be dead.”
[Undated]
Every day, rumours—Bonaparte lives, Bonaparte has perished. I grieve, I rejoice, I grieve again. I begin each day with a prayer, and a conviction that Bonaparte will survive, that he will endure, that he will overcome—but by nightfall, doubt and fear have come into my heart like evil demons.
I have been reading through the letters Bonaparte sent me when we first were married. I read his burning words of love and I want to weep. I have not loved him as I should, have not given him my heart. There are so many things I want to tell him—and now I fear it may be too late.
[Undated]
People watch me for clues. “She’s not smiling. He must be dead,” I overheard a market woman say.
December 23.
I’ve not been out for two weeks, unable to face the looks of mourning, of exultation. Everywhere I go, I feel eyes.
want to list my aches and pains. “I received your note.” Gingerly, I took a seat, for my hip was inflamed after two days in a jolting carriage. “I confess I’m anxious.”
“Of course! Of course!” Barras took the chair near mine, shifted uncomfortably. “We’ve had … news,” he said, clearing his throat, his Adams apple bobbing.
“Paul, please tell me—are they all right?” Nothing could be worse than what I imagined.
“Bonaparte, you mean?” Crossing his legs at the ankle.
“Yes—and the boys.” Eugène, Louis.
“Of course, yes. They’re fine, I assure you, but there has been … How should I put it? There’s been a bit of a setback. But I assure you, yes, Bonaparte and the boys are safe,” he repeated, raising his left hand as if making a vow, “as are most of the men.”
Most? I tilted my head to one side, my dangling earrings tinkling.
“But the fleet is … sunk,” he said in a whisper.
Sunk? I listened in a daze as Barras explained. After Admiral Brueys anchored the fleet at Aboukir, the English swooped down and destroyed all but four of our ships. The commander of the Timoléon set his ship on fire rather than surrender. He died, standing on the deck. Admiral Brueys was cut in two standing at the helm of L’Orient. The explosion of the gunpowder in the hold could be heard in Alexandria, twenty-five miles away. The battle went on for three days, the bloodiest ever fought at sea. And yet the English did not lose a single ship.
I put my fist to my lips, overwhelmed by the enormity of the loss. The greatest fleet in history since the Crusades—gone? Over three thousand men killed or wounded. All the supplies—including the gold needed to buy provisions—lost.
Barras refilled his glass, spilling spirits onto the carpet. “And, of course, the unfortunate thing is that now the troops are …” He cleared his throat again. “Stranded.”
My heart began to pound. “But surely we’ll rescue them,” I said, twisting my handkerchief.
“I can’t see how! The English are now in control of the sea. It’s doubtful that we’ll even be able to get a mail boat through.”
A feeling of panic came over me. I had to get home, before I was overcome.
“You understand, we’re keeping this confidential,” he went on. “But Pau
l, an entire fleet, how can you—?”
“The exhibition opens tomorrow! We’ve planned the most spectacular New Year fête imaginable, to celebrate Bonaparte’s victories. And now this. The people laugh at us as it is. I’m already accused of every vice, of committing every crime, every petty thievery. To hear people talk, I’m a very busy man. Have you heard the latest epigram? ‘If only the Republic could be disem barrassed.’ Charming, don’t you think? And what about that poster of a lance, a lettuce leaf and a rat? It’s everywhere; you’ll see it. I finally figured it out: the seventh year will kill them.* And, you know, I’m starting to think maybe they’re—”
“Paul, please, tell me. What does this mean?”
Barras’s glass missed the fireplace and shattered against the wall. Toto jumped up, cowering. “What it means is that the goddamned English have downed the entire French fleet.” He sank back into his chair, his hands over his eyes. “Grand Dieu, I’m going mad.”
September 17.
Hortense was hopping up and down with excitement. “There are ribbons and bouquets on all the posts.”
“And colourful silk banners fluttering in the breeze,” Émilie (Madame Lavalette now) said.
“That’s wonderful,” I said, trying to put some enthusiasm in my voice.
Hortense became concerned. “We are going to the exhibition, Maman—aren’t we?”
It was easier than I thought it would be, accepting congratulations on behalf of my husband’s victories, smiling, bowing, nodding—not letting on. I watched as if from a distance the people dancing, singing, staggering in the glow of their country’s glory, in the illusion of victory. The realization of defeat would come soon enough. Perhaps it is always thus. Perhaps all victories are false, defeat the inevitable reality.
Or perhaps, more truly, I too did not want to think about what I knew to be true, that the greatest of victories had been followed by the greatest of defeats.
I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder. Barras, looking ill—from last night’s tippling, no doubt. “How are you managing?” he asked, his soft voice very nearly drowned out by all the commotion. He was wearing the ceremonial robe of a director, an enormous crimson cashmere cape and a velvet toque with a tricolour plume.
“Not too bad,” I said, keeping an eye on Hortense, Caroline, Emilie and Jérôme, who were over by a lemonade vendor. An enclave of Bonapartes sat in a roped-off cluster directly in front of the stage. “It’s not as hard as I thought it would be.” During the day, that is. During the night it was another matter. “Do they know?” I tilted my head in the direction of the Bonapartes—Joseph and his wife Julie, Lucien (back from Corsica), Pauline and Victor Leclerc (recently arrived from Milan). All of them were curiously sullen in the midst of so much festivity.
“Certainly not. That hot-headed Lucien would leak it to the Moniteur in a minute, along with accusations that it is the fault of the Directors—my fault, to be specific. Did you know that he’s been made Secretary of the Five Hundred?”
“But he was only elected a deputy three months ago.”
“He’s become quite popular on the strength of his rather vocal opposition to the Directors—on the strength of his opposition to me, I should say. And as for that smiling jackal of a man, that mild-mannered—” He raised one bushy eyebrow. “I wouldn’t walk a dark alley with Joseph Bonaparte, let’s put it that way.”
“But why do they all look so glum?”
Barras snorted. “They don’t like their seats, they should be up on the stage, the posters should have their faces on them, there should be more posters, the posters aren’t big enough.” He threw up his hands. “In short, it’s not enough. It’s never enough for a Bonaparte, apparently. Your husband excepted, of course.”
“Of course,” I echoed—not paying attention, I confess. An attractive young woman had stooped to exchange a word with Joseph. There was something familiar about her.
“Ready, Director Barras?” It was Director Neufchâteau, the newest member of the council of five Directors, and as Minister of the Interior the mastermind behind the exhibition. I wanted an opportunity to thank him personally for responding to my request that funding to the Vosges municipalities be increased. As well, I had a number of other requests to make. But most important, Bonaparte was going to be in need of allies—especially now.
I gave Director Neufchâteau my hand. “A brilliant display, Director, quite inspiring. I congratulate you.” The woman talking to Joseph stood, turned—Lisette! She headed toward a door, the gems in her headdress glittering in the torchlight. Fouché had warned me she’d been consorting with the Bonapartes. Why had she been talking with Joseph? I wondered with apprehension, recalling her words: You will be sorry!
The military band began to warm up. I felt a stir in the crowd, craning heads. “Ah, there she is,” Barras said, speaking in the Provençal dialect, “our lovely Amazon.” I looked toward the entry. It was Thérèse, in shimmering silver and mauve, towering above the crowd. She was followed at a distance by her footman and nanny, carrying Thermidor in petticoats. Thérèse caught my eye, made a look of surprise, waved wildly.
Director Neufchâteau put his gloved hand on Barras’s shoulder. “We’re being summoned, Director,” he said. The two men headed toward the stage.
“I didn’t even know you were back,” Thérèse exclaimed, folding me in her arms.
I took her hand, feeling suddenly, unaccountably, choked up. It was so good to see her.
Thérèse held me at arm’s length. “And how are you?”
“I’m going to be all right.” I think. “I’m walking, that’s the important thing.”
“And what do you make of all this?” Thérèse asked before I could tell her about Lisette. “Everyone’s gone crazy over your husband. Maybe it’s true, what he says—maybe you are his Lady of Luck.”
I turned away. It was impossible to lie to Thérèse. Fortunately, the nanny appeared with Thermidor, her thumb in her mouth, her big eyes transfixed. “This little one is sleepy,” Thérèse said.
“I’m not little,” Thermidor said, taking her thumb out of her mouth.
“I’m—”
“Three! I know.” I took her in my arms. “My, you are a big girl now.” She smelled of soap. I pressed her silken cheek to mine. “You will make a wonderful grandmother,” Thérèse said. She hadn’t said, a wonderful mother.
September 19.
A sleepless night. One year ago Lazare died, yet even still he is often in my thoughts. I am no Lady of Luck. Every man I have ever loved has fallen. I am ill at the thought that harm might come to Bonaparte and to Eugène. I have mourned too many loved ones. I plead with my guardian angels: fly, fly! Go to them. Keep them from harm.
September 21.
Ah, my dear Glories …
“Darling, we’re so relieved to see you. What have you done with your hair?”
“I love that gown. Turn, turn, let me see.”
“Oh, that’s different, I like the way the sash comes up over the shoulders.” “All of Paris has been singing your husband’s praise.” “The French Caesar, my cook calls him.” “Everyone.”
“Hail, Caesar!” Fortunée Hamelin was wearing a blue wig. She’d dyed one of Thérèse’s blonde ones. “My, but this champagne is excellent,” she said, shrugging her shoulders to lower her bodice. “Better get your girl to bring up a few more bottles, Josephine. There, you see? I remembered.”
“Is it true? Citoyenne Marmont told me that you’re going to Egypt with her, that the General is sending La Pomone back from Malta just to fetch you.”
“That’s so romantic. I’d love to have a ship sent for me.”
“But are you well enough to travel, darling? I noticed you walking with a bit of a limp.”
“We read all about your treatment in that medical journal—how ghastly.”
“It’s a wonder you survived the cure.”
“All those enemas—mon Dieu.” The bright silk flowers piled high onto the crown of Madam
e de Crény’s ruffled bonnet made her seem even shorter than she was.
“That’s one thing I simply can’t abide.”
“Enemas? Some women actually like them.” Minerva giggled.
“And some men like giving them.”
“Parbleu!” Fortunée Hamelin guffawed.
“It’s true. Madame Mercier constantly complains that her husband wants to physic her too much.” “Why, that scamp.”
“Not that I want to change the subject, Josephine, but the big house down the road, the one at the corner of Rue du Mont Blanc—is that the one your sister-in-law and her husband bought?”
“The Leclercs?” I nodded, playing a card. On their return from Milan, Pauline and Victor had purchased (with cash, it was rumoured) the property three houses down. Every time I passed, I saw Pauline’s face at a window. My personal spy, I was coming to think of her.
“I think it’s nice to have family close by,” Madame de Crény said.
Thérèse caught my eye. “Not always,” I confessed.
“Oh?” They looked at me expectantly.
“You know you can always trust a Glory,” Minerva said, sensing my hesitation.
And then I broke down, told all: how Joseph had vowed to break up my marriage; how Bonaparte’s mother called me “the old woman” (and worse!); how Pauline spied on me; how I’d finally come to understand that to Corsicans a wife was nothing, that it was the husband’s family that truly mattered, and that my husband’s love for me and my children had provoked a profoundly jealous hatred in them.
“Mon Dieu, I’ve heard about vendettas, but … I had no idea,” Madame de Crény exclaimed, swinging her feet.
“Im rather surprised by the fuss over your business dealings. I thought your husband’s uncle was an army supplier.”
Fesch? I nodded. As well as Joseph. And Lucien.
“And not Pauline and Victor Leclerc?”
I rolled my eyes, well, yes … them too.
“Is it true they were recalled from Milan?”
“For filling their pockets, I heard.” “I heard they bought an estate in Italy.”
“And are looking to buy a property up near Senlis.”
Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe Page 23