The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte

by Chatlien, Ruth Hull

  “More importantly, my love, none of them can rival you for beauty.”

  Her good humor restored, Betsy settled back in her seat. As the second act began, she imagined that she was already in Paris watching plays that were far more sophisticated than this production. How wonderful life would be when she and Jerome were established at court.

  SATURDAY WAS THE night of the du Ponts’ ball. Because it was given in their honor, Betsy and Jerome stood for a long time in a hallway outside the reception room meeting émigrés, American businessmen, and New York dignitaries. The last two days, the weather had been hot, so Betsy fanned herself between introductions. Several of the French guests remarked on her resemblance to Pauline Bonaparte, and Betsy grew curious to meet her sister-in-law.

  When they were finally able to enter the reception hall where the dancing was taking place, Betsy immediately noticed how warm it was. Even though the room was large and had three sets of double doors open at the far end, it was packed with a swarm of people. Candle smoke and human sweat tainted the atmosphere.

  Jerome was impatient to dance. As they attached themselves to the end of two lines doing a contradanse, he said, “You are the most elegant woman here, Elisa. Did I tell you that Madame du Pont thinks you are as lovely as an angel?”

  “No.” Betsy grinned. “Do you wish I were an angel, Jerome?”

  “Mon dieu, non! I prefer you as flesh and blood, my love.”

  As the guests of honor, they had to partner with other people after their first turn together. Betsy danced without ceasing for more than an hour, making small talk with a variety of men she had never met before that night. Even in her lightweight dress, she found herself perspiring and, at times, struggling to catch her breath. When the musicians finally took a break, Jerome came to find her. “Elisa, your face is so red. Are you well?”

  Betsy fanned herself. “The air is very close. I had no idea the du Ponts were going to ask so many people.”

  “Come.” He pulled her off the dance floor to a side gallery where several middle-aged women sat on delicate gilt chairs. Betsy was about to protest against joining such staid company when she realized that Jerome was still moving. Reaching their destination took several minutes because many people stopped them to speak. Finally, after politely breaking off their fourth conversation, they arrived at the open doors in the back.

  Jerome escorted Betsy onto a deserted balcony overlooking a rear courtyard garden. Two torches extended from brackets in the wall, and flanking the three sets of doors were potted evergreens. Leading Betsy around the shrub at the far right, Jerome showed her to a small stone bench in a secluded corner. “Rest here. I will be back in a few moments with lemonade. Or would you prefer champagne?”

  “I am very thirsty. Lemonade might be best.”

  She sat fanning herself. Stars twinkled in the dark sky overhead, and Betsy searched for a meteor so she could make a wish. What a wonderful night we are having, she thought. Being admired by so many émigrés gave her a taste of what life might be like when they reached Napoleon’s court. She felt more certain than ever that she and Jerome were going to be the most brilliant young couple in Paris.

  Hearing footsteps come onto the balcony, Betsy closed her fan, brushed back a wisp of hair, and prepared to greet her husband. Instead, she heard a strange man’s voice, speaking English with an American accent, from the vicinity of the balustrade beyond the potted fir. “Have you ever seen such a crush? There must be a hundred people here.”

  “At least,” answered a second man, a New Englander by his speech. Betsy smelled the leafy aroma of burning tobacco. “I wonder why the du Ponts are incurring so much expense for a scapegrace like young Bonaparte. I heard that Victor paid the couple’s rent and even loaned Bonaparte several thousand dollars.”

  Stunned, Betsy remained very still as the other man replied, “There is no surprise in that. Du Pont makes his living supplying French troops. He must think that if he keeps the younger brother happy, the First Consul will favor his bids.”

  “Then he is a fool. From what my European friends tell me, Boney is an iron-hard man who will not be swayed by such fripperies.” A pause occurred, which Betsy attributed to the men puffing their cigars. Then the New Englander said, “I tell you what, if Jerome Bonaparte is hard up for money, I would gladly pay a hundred dollars to dance with his pretty wife and take a long gander at those luscious bubbies.”

  The other man laughed coarsely. “No need to pay, Bill. She gives away the view.”

  A wave of burning shame swept over Betsy. Realizing with alarm that her husband had been gone long enough to fetch her drink, she rose. She had to stop this malicious talk before Jerome arrived, or he would be likely to issue the men a challenge. Although her legs were trembling, she forced herself to walk past the obstructing evergreen, where she found two merchants she had met earlier. “Gentlemen, I believe you wished to see me?”

  The one nearest to Betsy, a portly middle-aged man in a cheap suit, whirled around and said, “Damn!”

  The other man, about thirty and fashionably dressed, stammered, “Madame Bonaparte, I—I—Please forgive us. We had no idea that you were so near.”

  “Your comments would not be acceptable were I on the moon, sir.”

  “No, no, you are right. I do not know what to say.”

  She lifted her chin and gave him a cutting stare. “I suggest you rejoin the other guests before my husband returns, because I warn you that he does not suffer insults to his honor lightly. Especially when made by grubby tradesmen like yourselves.”

  The younger man tossed his cigar to the lawn below and hurried away, but the older one took a last leisurely puff. “Grubby tradesman, eh? You are nothing but a merchant’s daughter yourself. But of course, you have since married a Bonaparte, and we all know how highly that family is esteemed.” He made a mocking bow. Then he snuffed his cigar in a nearby pot and left.

  As soon as Betsy was alone, her tremors increased and she grasped the balustrade for support. Gazing at the dark garden below, she tried to dismiss the men as odious nobodies. She did not know which was more upsetting, their comments about her appearance or their assumption that Jerome was sponging off their host. Surely, the remarks about money were merely speculative gossip.

  Yet, as she recovered from the shock of the encounter, Betsy began to wonder if Jerome was deceiving her about his sources of income. She had to admit that he had a record of being financially reckless. Betsy also knew that few men would tolerate their wife’s interference in money matters—and Jerome with his Corsican pride was not likely to be one of them. All she could do was to steer him gently to be more moderate in their outlays.

  She sighed and then heard Jerome say her name. As he came onto the balcony and handed her a cup of lemonade, he said, “Why are you standing here? I thought you were going to rest.”

  “I was looking at the stars and wondering what they will be like during our voyage to France. Will they be much brighter than this?”

  “Oh, yes, wait until you see the wonder of the night sky over the Atlantic.”

  “Something to look forward to,” she murmured.

  Jerome tilted up her chin. “I cannot wait to see the starlight reflected in that luminous gaze of yours.” As she met his glance, Betsy felt tears pooling in her eyes. Jerome frowned. “Elisa, are you crying?”

  “It is nothing. I am just happy to be with you.”

  He seized her hand, drew her back into the shadows, and kissed her.

  A FEW WEEKS passed without the opportunity to sail. One morning, as Jerome and Betsy sat at breakfast in their private sitting room, Jerome’s manservant came to announce a visitor. “Monsieur du Pont is downstairs, sir. He insists on seeing you.”

  “Show him up.”

  As soon as the servant left, Betsy stood and fastened her wrapper more tightly over her chemise. “I wish I were dressed.”

  Jerome shrugged. “You will not be the first woman he has seen in déshabillé.”
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br />   A minute later, the servant ushered Victor du Pont into the room. He bowed. “Forgive me for disturbing you at such an unseemly hour. I would not have presumed if it were not urgent.”

  “Please, have a seat,” Betsy said.

  “Thank you.” He took a chair but perched on the edge. “I heard upsetting news from an associate just arrived on a merchant ship from France, and I did not want you to read it in the newspaper. In March, there was another plot to assassinate the First Consul.”

  “Another?”

  “Elisa, hush,” Jerome said in a tone of command unlike anything she had ever heard him use. “Du Pont, is my brother safe?”

  “Yes. They discovered the scheme before the plotters were able to act.”

  “Thank God for that!”

  “But there is more. The First Consul received information that the Duc d’Enghien was involved.” Glancing at Betsy, du Pont explained, “Enghien was a prince of the blood of the House of Bourbon.”

  “Was?” Jerome asked.

  “Yes,” du Pont said, nodding emphatically. “As I said, rumor implicated him in the plot, but there was little evidence. Even so, the First Consul sent dragoons into Baden to arrest him. They brought him back to France, where he was immediately tried and executed.”

  “Good!”

  “That is not all, is it?” Betsy asked, seeing the anxiety on du Pont’s face.

  “No. All of Europe is in an uproar over the insult to Baden and the haste with which the execution was carried out. They are calling it judicial murder akin to the Reign of Terror.”

  “That is absurd. My brother did only what was necessary to protect himself.”

  Betsy and du Pont exchanged an uneasy glance, and she said, “No one is denying Napoleon’s right to defend himself. The only question is the method. To invade another nation and extract one of its residents could be considered grounds for war.”

  “So can plots of assassination!” Jerome exclaimed, shoving his plate away.

  “Yes, of course, but he should have found a way to take legal action against the plotters.” Betsy thought of an example to help him understand. “You have heard my father complain of the way the British navy impresses our sailors into its service. It shows that Britain does not respect our sovereignty as a country. Napoleon’s action demonstrates the same disrespect for Baden.”

  “Elisa, are you siding with my brother’s enemies?”

  “No, of course not,” she answered, keeping her voice calm in the face of her husband’s fury. “I was trying to explain why the other rulers of Europe are shocked. Has the First Consul never spoken of the need to understand how one’s foes are thinking?”

  Jerome was speechless a moment, and then he laughed without mirth. To du Pont, he said, “Do you see why I love her? Beneath that angelic face is a mind that seeks to emulate the greatest strategist in Europe.” He stood and kissed the top of her head. “You are adorable.”

  Irritated by his condescension, Betsy remained silent.

  Jerome crossed to a cabinet on the other side of the room and poured a brandy. “This news makes it even more imperative that we get to France. My brother will need the support of all his family.”

  “With luck, a frigate will arrive before long,” du Pont said.

  After tossing back his drink, Jerome said, “With luck. Thank you for coming. It was good of you to see that I did not learn the story from a hostile source.”

  “It was the least I could do.” Rising, du Pont bowed to Betsy again. “Madame Bonaparte.” Then he took his leave.

  Once they were alone, Betsy asked Jerome, “What did he mean by saying this was ‘another’ plot to assassinate Napoleon?”

  “On Christmas Eve three years ago, a group of conspirators exploded an infernal machine in the street, hoping to catch Napoleon on the way to the opera. My brother and Josephine narrowly escaped, but many bystanders died.”

  “How horrible! What do they hope to gain from such violence?”

  “The overthrow of the Consulate, of course.” Jerome poured another half measure of brandy and drank it.

  “But could they not wait and oppose him at the next election—” Betsy fell silent as she realized the error in her thinking. The Constitution passed in 1802 had made Napoleon First Consul for life. For him, there would be no more elections. For an instant, Betsy recalled how scornfully her brother William had dismissed the idea that France could still call itself a republic. The French people had no recourse against abuse of power except to resort to violence. But Napoleon is not a tyrant, she reminded herself.

  She saw that Jerome was frowning at her prolonged silence, so she said, “What you are telling me is that without your brother at the helm, the current government will founder and the Bourbons may return.”

  Jerome nodded. “Precisely. That, no doubt, is why Enghien was involved.”

  To Betsy, it was clear where her allegiance lay. She crossed to Jerome and hugged him. “I am so sorry. It must be vexing to be so far from your family when Napoleon is in danger.”

  Jerome stroked her hair. “We must go to Paris as soon as possible.”

  WEEKS PASSED WITHOUT a French warship arriving in New York.

  Toward the end of May, as Betsy and Jerome sat at breakfast, they received an urgent letter from William Patterson: “Betsy, I have news from your brother Robert, but I dare not trust it to the mails. Come home at once.”

  They hastily packed, wrote the necessary letters to cancel their engagements, and set off for Maryland.

  Even with a good carriage, the journey from New York to Baltimore took four days. The highway just outside New York was tolerable, but once they crossed into New Jersey, the roads were in notoriously poor repair—so bad that two years earlier a newspaper had declared them the worst on the eastern seaboard. The poor time they made the first two days irritated Jerome so much that he swore at every minor annoyance. Betsy kept silent in spite of sharing his vexation. She suspected that on his own, Jerome would have gone on through the night, but he would not subject her to the discomfort of continuous traveling.

  South of Philadelphia, the roads improved again, and their carriage progressed more swiftly. Even so, Betsy chafed at the length of the trip. While she appreciated her father’s discretion, given how frequently mail was opened and read in transit, she was desperate to know how the Bonapartes had reacted to her marriage. For the entirety of the journey, her curiosity was an itch akin to the torment she had suffered as a child whenever she got chigger bites from walking in wet summer grass on her family’s country estates.

  They reached Baltimore in the late evening of the fourth day and went straight to the Patterson house, where they found her parents in the drawing room. Betsy immediately asked her father, “What does Robert say?”

  Patterson crossed to his desk, unlocked the top drawer, and pulled out a sheet of paper. “He wrote the day after arriving in France and seeing the American minister. Mr. Livingston has already spoken to the First Consul and your other brothers, Jerome, assuring them that you have made a respectable alliance, but the situation remains precarious.” He handed his daughter the letter and pointed to a particular paragraph. “Read that aloud.”

  After biting her lip, Betsy complied. “Bonaparte is of a very irritable temper, and as he is at present highly incensed with his brother, he might, were Jerome here, take some violent measures with him.”

  Overcome by this pessimistic assessment, Betsy sank onto her father’s wingback chair before continuing.

  Still, Mr. Livingston thinks the First Consul will after awhile become better satisfied with the union; and as he has by his conduct hitherto uniformly endeavored to impress on the world the highest idea of his moral character, he will not lightly, in this present affair, do anything to impeach or bring that character into question.

  “See, Elisa! All will be well. We just have to be patient to allow the volcano of my brother’s temper to stop erupting, and calm to be restored.”

  Despite h
er anxiety, Betsy smiled at his colorful metaphor before reading further.

  When the account of Mr. Jerome Bonaparte’s intentions first reached the consular ear, the First Consul had determined to recall him instantly. Since the marriage has taken place, I believe it is his intention Jerome should remain in America for some time. Mr. Joseph Bonaparte has consulted Mr. Livingston respecting the most eligible place for Jerome to reside.

  Betsy turned to her husband. “But we do not want to live in America. Why does your oldest brother try to order our lives without consulting us?”

  William Patterson answered instead of Jerome. “I believe this scheme is proposed on the possibility that we will prove unable to reconcile the First Consul to your marriage. However, if you continue reading, you will see that Robert describes more than one contingency.”

  Returning to the letter, Betsy skimmed a long passage that discussed how much money would be required for Jerome to live in a style appropriate to his rank, and then she read aloud, “For the present, it will be much better the parties should remain in America; but should he be directed to return, I am of the opinion she ought to accompany him.”

  Betsy decided not to read the next sentence aloud because it expressed Robert’s fear that Jerome’s affections might diminish if he returned alone.

  She handed the letter back to her father. “Jerome has already been ordered by Minister of the Navy Decrès to return to France as soon as possible, so I think this idea of settling in America is an impossibility.”

  “I am not certain I share that opinion. Jerome, you know your brother’s temper. Is he likely to recover from his displeasure at your marriage?”

  Watching her husband closely, Betsy could see a glib assurance rise to his lips, but he took one look at his father-in-law’s grim expression and refrained from uttering it. “I cannot say. At times, Napoleon can be obdurate in demanding that the rest of us yield to his point of view, while at others, he punishes us for a while and then forgives. But I can be as unyielding as he, and I will never consent to give up Elisa. Once he sees my determination, he will have to receive us to preserve the family peace. And I feel certain that the moment he meets Elisa, her beauty and excellent character will overcome any reservations.”