September 18—Croissy.
A rainy, melancholy weekend at Croissy, sorting and packing. And going twice daily to visit Aimée.
She is much weakened. It is distressing to see her confined to bed, a situation she does not take to happily. “If I want so much as a dish of tea, I have to ask my daughter for it,” she complained. “Fortunately Lucie is still under the impression that I have some authority over her, but soon, no doubt…”
“I’d like to meet the person who can succeed in dominating you, Aimée.”
She cursed lustily. There is life in her yet.
September 23.
The New Year, the new constitution proclaimed. Fireworks late into the night. Thérèse and I watched the display from my garden—my garden! I am exhausted from the move, but happy. I love my new home. I call it Chantereine.
September 25.
I worked all day in the garden. Fortuné sniffed every mound of dirt, barked at every bug. Lannoy has begun making drapes for the bedroom (blue nankeen with red-and-yellow crests). The drawing room looks like a seamstress’s studio, the floor covered over with scraps. I am having six wooden chairs and a small couch covered. I purchased a Renaud harp (only three strings missing) and a marble bust of Socrates at a second-hand shop. Little by little, my home begins to come together. The effect will be simple, but elegant (I hope).
I’ve hired a cook, Callyot, a Negro from Sainte-Lucie who makes créole dishes as well as more traditional fare. (He was recommended to me by Aimée.)
Agathe ran off with a fowler from the Midi but quickly saw the error of her ways (he stank of chicken) and returned, not with child we hope.
Gontier is staying on, dear old soul. Fortunately—for he’s the only one who can coax milk from Cleopatra, my cow.
Now all I need is a coachman and a gardener. I am hoping we can manage on that—for a time. Funds are tight, even with Barras’s generous contributions.
September 26.
A hot day, but a breeze was cooling. I worked in my garden again. Mosquitoes hovered, dragonflies circled. Now and again I heard popping noises and a faint ringing sound—a tocsin, perhaps? The ferment of Paris seems so very far away…
In which we are at war again
Monday, September 28, 1795.
It is so peaceful at Chantereine I was shocked to learn that there had been a riot at the Assembly yesterday. Several hundred people were killed.
“Several hundred?”
“Even the Jacobins are beginning to think that only a monarchy can save us.” Barras’s sword clanked against the fireplace. He had just come from the Military School, where he’d been training a group of men—“My private fighting force, my ‘Sacred Battalion.’”
“Not the National Guard?”
“Too civilized,” he said. “Upstanding citizens, men of property. How many have ever killed a man? In a conflict, how many will bolt? Half, I predict. They’re good for a parade, but not much else. No—I need seasoned killers, men with the smell of blood on their hands.”
“And where does one find ‘seasoned’ killers?”
“In the prisons, of course—thugs, murderers, the occasional terrorist.” He accepted my offer of another brandy. “I’ve got fifteen hundred of them already. I’ve virtually emptied the prisons.”
“No—”
“My men,” he grinned.
I remembered something Thérèse had once said: Barras prefers his men coarse, his ladies refined.
“And the more the merrier, thank you,” Barras said, as if reading my thoughts. He pulled out his timepiece. He must go. But first there was something he wanted to ask: Would I seek out Citoyen Buonaparte? “There’s a rumour he’s been in contact with the Royalists. Whose side is he on? I must know. Things are heating up—”
“But he’s busy, you said—with this business of maps.”
“You women have your ways…Invite him to your home. Surely this is not a mystery to you.”
The project struck me as distasteful.
“Consider the fate of the Republic,” Barras insisted, “your children’s future.”
October 4.
Citoyen Buonaparte was better clothed than I was accustomed to seeing him, dressed in a new blue uniform. Even so, he looked sickly, his skin sallow, his boots huge on his spindly legs.
I invited him into the garden. I asked Agathe to bring us café au lait. “Made with coffee beans from Martinico,” I told him, “and milk from my cow.”
He accepted, although he was in a hurry, he said. He could not stay for crêpes. He has been toiling day and night—on a plan to liberate Italy from the Austrians, he said.
I smiled. “You say this in all seriousness.”
“One need only believe.”
“Is it that simple?” He did not answer. He was absorbed in an examination of the sundial. “You do not credit destiny?” I prompted him.
He turned to me abruptly. “One can become accustomed to appeasing destiny rather than controlling it.” He had a strange way of putting things—rather in the manner of proverbs.
“I believe I am of the first party, Citoyen Buonaparte.” Although I wasn’t sure what he meant.
“Brigadier-General Buonaparte,” he corrected me.
“Forgive me, I thought—”
“Actually…” He smiled. He is almost charming when he smiles. “You may call me Emperor.”
“Emperor Buonaparte?” I bowed my head, amused.
He stared at me, his eyes grey, cold but inflamed, unsettling. “I mystify you,” he said. “That is understandable. But what I don’t understand is why you induced me to call. I confess I have developed something of an attachment for you. Nevertheless, I am under the impression that this feeling is not, at this time, reciprocated.”
I stooped to pick a rose. A thorn pricked my finger. Tears came to my eyes, an embarrassing weakness.
“Barras has something to do with this,” he persisted.
I turned to him, angry for being so bluntly challenged. “It is clear you favour directness, General Buonaparte. Very well then, yes, it was Deputy Barras.”
“And how much did he pay you?” He put on his hat.
“Don’t go—”
“I do have pride, Citoyenne.” And was gone.
I set out for Barras’s in a nervous condition. I was expected—to review social plans, financial arrangements…I had an agenda of my own, however. I wasn’t going to do his bidding any longer.
Barras burst into laughter when I told him about my exchange with General Buonaparte.
“I regret I do not see the humour,” I said.
“Rose—you are so charming in this mood.”
I stood up. “You are not taking my position seriously.”
He put his hand on my arm. “Sit, relax. You can’t leave now. I asked the cook to make meringues.”
“I do not care for dessert.” Sitting nonetheless.
“Very well, I will eat your share. Your disposition is sweet enough. I, no doubt, could use a little douceur. Ah, there, you see? I knew I could coax a smile. But please, my friend, accept my apologies. I have caused you distress. I regret to tell you that there have been no letters for you from Lazare. Soldiers are so cruel. But tell me about your children—do they like their schools? By the way, that créole banker you introduced me to has proved to be a most profitable contact, did I tell you?”
In short, Barras made himself entirely agreeable. I softened and we talked: of his most recent romantic conquest, the tragedy by Corneille opening at the Comédie-Française in two days, his rabbits.
It was as I was finishing my second meringue that a messenger came.
“Do you recall where the convent of Filles de Saint-Thomas is?” Barras asked, squinting to make out the writing.
“Rue Vivienne, I believe. Why?”
“Apparently it’s full of armed men.” Barras cursed. “Royalists.” He looked at his timepiece, sighed. “And I’d hoped to get some sleep tonight.”
I left as he was strapping
on his sword, ordering a horse tacked, “getting into war gear,” as he put it. I gave him a good luck kiss. “Take care,” I said.
He stopped for a moment. Then he smiled, that crooked smile that makes him so endearing. “So tell me, Rose—can Buonaparte be trusted?”
October 5, midnight.
I’m at Thérèse’s. I didn’t think she should be alone tonight.
Lieutenant Floraux was just here, cantering dramatically into the courtyard, his horse lathered with sweat. “The National Guard has rebelled!” he cried out, still breathless. He took off his helmet. His hair was short, as is the fashion with the young now, in what is called a Brutus crop. “They’ve turned on the Assembly, on the Deputies, joined the Royalists!”
“The National Guard?” I asked, incredulous. “Joined the Royalists? Are you sure?” I urged him to sit down.
“Not all of them.” He gulped down the glass of port I offered him. “Three out of four.”
How could a defence be mounted without men? “How many Royalists are there?” I wondered if Jeanne-Victoire d’Aiguillon’s nephew was among them. Or Régis de Saale, the Marquis de Caulaincourt’s friend. Or Madame Campan’s young cousin, only seventeen.
“It is thought they are forty thousand strong.”
“Forty thousand—mon Dieu!”
“Forty thousand what?” Thérèse asked, coming into the room. She’d been helping the nanny put the baby to bed.
“Royalists,” I said weakly, taking a chair.
October 6, dawn.
We were awakened by the sound of pounding on the gate. Thérèse’s footman ran to answer it, yelling for the intruder to be silent. This set a horse whinnying.
It was Lieutenant Floraux again. The government had rallied, he told us. He helped himself to a glass of port. “They’ve named Deputy Barras General.”
“But without the National Guard, who does he command?” I asked.
“He’s got some men, a tough-looking group, the Sacred Battalion he calls them. ‘Battalion of the Terrorists’ others would have it.”
A battalion of murderers let loose on the streets of Paris. I was thankful the children were in Saint-Germain-en-Laye. “And General Buonaparte? Is…is he involved?” I asked.
“The little Corsican? He’s second-in-command apparently.”
“Second-in-command?” Thérèse groaned.
“He may surprise you,” I said. One need only believe.
“We could use a surprise.” Lieutenant Floraux downed his glass.
10:00 P.M.
At supper, we thought we heard gunfire…
“Can that be cannon?” Thérèse asked, walking the baby back and forth across the room.
We heard a second blast, and another.
Thérèse pressed the infant’s head to her heart. “Surely not…”
“They wouldn’t use cannon,” I said. “Muskets, but not cannon. Not on citizens.” My words were silenced by a volley of ominous booms.
In which my heart is broken
October 7, 1795.
Blood on the cobblestones. In front of a church, a market woman wailing, “The butchers! The butchers!”
It is as we feared—a slaughter.
“On citizens!” Lannoy ranted angrily. “Your friends, your virtuous Republicans, fired cannon on citizens!”
What had happened? I set out for Minerva’s.
“Have you talked to Barras?” she demanded. “What’s going on?”
I shook my head. “Anyone we know hurt?” Killed, I meant to ask, was afraid to ask.
“Only rumours. Everyone’s upset.” We joined a group by the doors to the garden.
“It was the Corsican who gave the command to fire the cannon,” Deputy Renouvier was saying.
“That’s not what I’ve been told,” a man standing next to him said.
“Corsicans are ruthless,” Madame de Méchain argued. “Entirely without morals. Everyone knows that.”
“And now, have you heard? He has set up strict supervision of all the theatres and cafés—even the meeting places around fountains are under surveillance. The fountains!”
“I was at the theatre,” a sweet-faced young man said, his voice high and tremulous. “There were sentries at the doors of all the boxes. If anyone dared voice a request for any but the most correct Republican tune, there were over a hundred grenadiers there ready to pounce!”
“Is it not critical that the government gain control?” Deputy Renouvier asked.
“Did we not have enough of control under Robespierre?” the sweet-faced young man argued. “The Corsican is a Jacobin I am told.”
“A close friend of Robespierre, I heard,” Madame de Méchain said.
“Not exactly.” Minerva looked to me for support. “He was a friend of Robespierre’s brother.”
“Ah, Bonbon’s friend!” the sweet-faced young man said, and everyone laughed.
The group fell silent. I looked toward the door. It was General Buonaparte, looking over the room with a haughty expression. He took off his hat. The tricolour plume fell off. He stooped to retrieve it, his sword knocking against the door.
As he stood, he spotted me.
“Citoyenne Madame Beauharnais,” he said, coming directly to my side, “I—”
“Would you care to walk in the garden, General?” I interrupted him. “I feel the need for air.”
Outside, I fanned myself, feeling somewhat faint. “I am fine.” I sat down on a stone bench. “Thank you.” A man and woman passed. The woman, recognizing General Buonaparte, turned her head in disdain.
Buonaparte broke a branch off a bush, began tearing off the leaves. “The French have a strange way of treating their heroes.”
“You feel your actions are beyond reproach, General?”
“I am a military man, not a politician. I do what I am told.”
“But perhaps too well, and too quickly.”
“The Royalists needed a lesson.”
I stood, my cheeks burning. “I do not know the customs in Corsica, General, but the French, as a rule, do not fire cannon on their citizens.”
I returned to the parlour, trembling.
I was in the game room with Minerva when Barras arrived. “Congratulations on your victory,” Minerva told him, putting down her cards.
He was flushed. He threw himself onto the sofa. “As we soldiers say, when the wine is opened, it must be drunk. To their butts,” he said, raising his glass. “For once.” He laughed and took a long drink.
I looked away.
“Damn your tears!” He threw his glass into the fire. It made a sharp, musical sound.
October 12.
It was not yet noon when a member of the National Guard came to my door. All arms were to be turned over to the military authority of Paris. Upon penalty of death.
Eugène, home from school for two days, clasped his father’s sword.
“You must do as you are told,” I told him. I could see defiance in his eyes.
I asked the guard to excuse us. We went into the parlour. Eugène would not relent. I returned to the guard. “How might one obtain an exemption?” I asked. “This sword means a great deal to my son. It belonged to his father, a Republican general who died little over a year ago.”
“Only General Buonaparte can grant an exemption.”
Every day it seemed, Buonaparte was promoted. Now he was Military Governor of Paris, and controlled everything.
“You will come with me?” Eugène asked.
“Better to go without me,” I said, recalling my last angry words with the General.
October 13.
At noon I was surprised by a caller. “General Bona-something,” Agathe said.
“General Buonaparte?”
She nodded.
I stood abruptly. What would I say? Our last meeting had not been gentle.
But I had no time to prepare. He was already standing in the door. “Post this at your gate.” He thrust a piece of paper into my hand.
It was a notice of exemption. “Does this mean my son may keep his father’s sword?”
General Buonaparte nodded. He paused. “On the twelfth day of Vendémiaire,* most of the guns were loaded with blanks. I took care that the citizens had areas available to them that afforded the greatest protection.”
His declaration was followed by an awkward silence.
“Surely my opinion cannot matter to you, General,” I said.
“You are correct. It does not. Nevertheless, I wish you to understand that I am not entirely without conscience.”
“Thank you, General.” But already, he had departed.
October 26.
The election results have been announced. Under the new constitution, five “Directors” will rule. Barras is one.
“They behead the King, put five in his place,” Lannoy grumbled. “And your friend Barras, the worst of the lot.”
“Hush, Lannoy!”
Tuesday, November 3.
The five Directors had a meeting in the Luxembourg Palace this morning. In the afternoon “Director” Barras gave Thérèse and me a tour.
The palace is in frightful repair, its recent use as a prison all too evident. I recalled my visits to Alexandre there. How different my purpose now. There was no furniture—only a few kitchen chairs and one rickety table. And cold, too—Barras sent a footman out for wood.
The five Directors will move in next week, each into his own suite. Already Barras has a work crew covering his walls with silk. His rabbit hutches have been set up in the gardens, his English Thoroughbreds are already in the stable.
“What good a king without a palace?” he asked, surveying his shabby domain.
“What good a palace without ladies of the court?” Thérèse echoed, taking my arm and his.
December 4, 1795—Fontainebleau
Dear Rose,
Thank you for your letter. How wonderful that the children are doing so well in school. I miss seeing Hortense on the weekends, although I must admit that a Sunday confirmation class with Madame Campan is possibly the only excuse I would have happily accepted.
The Josephine B. Trilogy Page 37
