May 5.
Confined to bed still. Thérèse was just here with herbals and good cheer. She showed me an account in the journal Ami des Lois. Apparently, someone had sent in verses written in my honour—unsigned, however.
“But I think I know who wrote them,” she said. “Wide-Awake.”
Captain Charles? (Thérèse has dubbed the amusing trickster Wide-Awake because he’s always so bright.) “Don’t be silly, Thérèse,” I said, pulling the coverlet under my chin. “He’s a decade my junior.” And in any case, I suspected that the pretty captain might be the type of man who only coquetted with women—nothing more.
“Young men adore you. Look at Bonaparte—he’s six years younger than you. And what about Lazare? How many years younger is he?”
“Five,” I said, blushing.
[Undated]
Slowly, I begin to get better. I detest being sick.
May 6.
It was late morning—I’d just had a bath—when I was informed that there were two men downstairs wishing to see me. I considered telling them I wasn’t receiving, for I’m not yet fully recovered. “I think one might be your husband’s brother,” Lisette told me.
Bonaparte’s older brother Giuseppe tipped his bicorne hat and bowed from the waist. “I’m called Joseph now,” he informed me, displaying the tips of his even teeth. “Charmed to meet you at last.” He is both taller and older than Bonaparte, a soft-spoken man with an indolent look. He was expensively if curiously turned out in a yellow tailcoat and matching knee breeches, a little cut-and-thrust sabre covered with gems dangling from his hip. Colonel Junot, one of Bonaparte’s aides, stood beside him, cracking his knuckles.
“What a surprise!” I greeted my brother-in-law. “I can’t tell you the pleasure this gives me,” I said again, aware that I was exclaiming too much. Should I address Bonaparte’s brother by his Christian name? Should I offer my condolences on his wife’s being delivered of a stillborn? What were the customs in Corsica?
Joseph pulled my hand to his lips and kissed it theatrically with his eyes closed, as if overwhelmed with feeling. I waited for him to finish. “My brother desires me to tell you of his overwhelming love,” he said.
“Bonaparte has often told me of his love for you,” I answered, wondering how I might dry his spittle from my hand. I motioned to Lisette to serve cordials, swiping my hand against my skirt and through the air as I did so, as if I were an exuberant sort of woman. “When did you arrive in Paris? I long for news of Bonaparte. Four victories in four days—it is impossible to imagine!”
“General Bonaparte rode five horses to death,” Colonel Junot said, cracking his knuckles again.
Mon Dieu, I thought. “Your journey, how was it?” I asked, my voice thin.
“We came the long way, by sea,” Joseph said. “But you will be happy to know, kind sister, that the return shouldn’t take longer than one week now that the passage over the Alps has been secured by treaty. Comfortable lodgings have been prepared for you.”
Lodgings? I closed my fan. I didn’t understand.
“You are to join my brother in Italy, kind sister.”
I pulled my train to one side and sat down on the chair next to the harp. “Forgive me, but I’m not sure if I am able to—” Would it be improper to inform him of my interesting condition?
“You do not understand, kind sister,” Joseph said softly, the muscles in his jaw twitching. “My brother, the General, he—”
“The General must not be disobeyed,” Junot said, twisting his fingers but failing, this time, to crack them.
They left soon after. I’ve ordered my coach-man to harness the horses—I must talk to Barras.
5:00 P.M., or shortly after.
Barras frowned. “But that’s impossible. The Directors must first give their consent.”
“They seem to be unaware of this.”
“The fact is, the Directors wouldn’t permit you to go, we wouldn’t grant you a passport. It’s simply not safe yet. And besides—” He propped his chin in the palm of one hand, regarding me with his puppy-dog eyes. “I doubt that it would be in our best interest, frankly. You’d distract the Liberator of Italy from his military duties.” He made a lecherous grin.
“So the Directors wouldn’t allow me to go to Italy?”
He shook his head, the feather in his cap bobbing.
I left shortly after, but not until I’d promised Barras I would attend the first weekend gathering at his new country château. “It will be wonderfully restful,” he promised me.
May 19—Grosbois!
I am sitting in a chair that was likely sat in by Louis XIV, the Sun King. I am writing at a desk where treaties have been drafted, staying in a château where the great men of history have slept.
I am, frankly, stunned by the magnitude of Grosbois, now Barras’s country estate. This is a castle.
“What it is, is a headache,” Barras said, pointing out all the repairs that are needed to the roof, the foundation, the windows. For it has fallen, to be sure, into neglect. It took two manservants eight full days just to capture and kill the vermin, he told us. (All the vermin.)
We are a small party: Thérèse and Tallien (recently reconciled but already bickering, alas), Julie and Talma* (also together again), a Deputy Dolivier (who is also a banker), Fortunée Hamelin (thankfully, her pompous husband stayed at home), Ouvrard and his wife, Lucile Beaucarnot, a singer with the Opéra (Barras’s current favourite) and her comely young brother. They are all out walking now, in search of views. I did not feel robust, so I declined.
In any case, it was an excuse to enjoy a short but delicious sleep under silk sheets—under the purple,** Aunt Désirée would say. Soon I’ll ring for Lisette and begin dressing for dinner. The water in the basin has been scented with rose petals; a crystal bottle of the finest claret has been placed on the table in front of a flower-filled fireplace. I can smell bread baking. Three cooks are at work preparing what will no doubt be yet another of Barras’s sumptuous feasts. (The menu is before me now.) Barras has arranged for a string ensemble to play as we dine. And then after, sated no doubt, we will retire to a golden salon where Talma will read, I will play the harp while Lucile Beaucarnot sings and—eventually, inevitably!—Thérèse will have us aching with laughter over her hilarious imitations. “And then the game room,” Barras warned us with a wicked grin, flinging his scarlet cape over his shoulder. He is clearly happy in this role, the grand master, orchestrating our pleasures. I am only too willing to oblige.
Late (I’m not sure of the time).
We gathered for dinner at five in full dress. (My new cream-coloured muslin gown embroidered with gold thread was perfect for the occasion.) “May I have the honour?” Barras offered me his arm. We led the small procession into the ancient dining room.
“A fresco by Abraham Bosse?” Thérèse inquired. The walls were painted with a medieval scene.
Barras shrugged. “I just live here.”
“How old is this place?” Ouvrard said, examining the massive fireplace that dominated one end of the room. He is a tall man, young (in his mid-twenties), exceptionally well-made. The wealthiest man in the French Republic, it is said.
“It has been a royal domain since the thirteenth century. Le Monsieur was the last resident,” Barras said. Le Monsieur, the Pretender, the brother of King Louis XVI—and, according to Royalists, King. “We walk in the footsteps of history.”
“You walk,” I corrected him.
We were seated, we ate, each attended by a silent valet. We drank, we got noisy: I took in the news. The deficit was a concern: two hundred and fifty million. The government was going to sell a number of National Properties in an effort to raise money.* The Directors were considering
Dinner Menu
FOR THE TABLE OF CITOYEN DIRECTOR AND GENERAL BARRAS DÉCADI, 30 FLORÉAL
12 PEOPLE
1 soup
1 appetizer
6 main dishes
2 roast dishes
/> 6 side-dishes
1 salad
24 dessert dishes
Soup
Monk small onion soup
Appetizer
Sturgeon broiled on a spit
Main dishes
Confidence man sautéed turbot fillets
Eel tartare
Cucumbers stuffed with marrow
Chicken-breast in a puff pastry shell with Béchamel sauce
John Dory fish in a caper sauce
Partridge fillets in rings
Roast dishes
Local gudgeon
Carp in a court-bouillion
Side-dishes
Snow eggs
White beetroot sautéed with ham
Madeira wine jelly
Orange blossom cream fritters
Marie Antoinette lentils in a cream of concentrated veal broth
Artichoke hearts in a shallot vinaigrette
Salad
Shredded celery in a herb-mustard mayonnaise
Twenty-four desserts
introducing new taxes: a patents tax, a stamp duty, land tax. There was talk of a tax on doors and windows, which led to a heated debate.
“The peasants will be forced to live in the dark,” Thérèse objected.
“The English do it,” Ouvrard observed. “They’ve done it for years.”
“And look at the state of their peasantry.”
“The English are taxed for living,” Tallien said. “For breathing.”
“But they don’t have a deficit,” Deputy Dolivier said.
“And they don’t have every Royalist country in Europe waging war on them for daring to embrace democratic ideals. The fact is,” Barras said, assuming his Director’s tone, “it costs us a great deal to keep our men in arms. Over half our revenues go to the Ministry of War. A standing army of five hundred thousand requires…How much would you guess a day, simply in sacks of wheat? Over six hundred,” he said, not waiting for us to guess.
“Six hundred and fifty,” Ouvrard corrected. “Seven hundred head of cattle, seventy thousand sacks of oats—a day. The horses alone require two million bales a day.”
“Spoken as an army supplier,” I said.
“Yes, and proud of it,” Ouvrard said earnestly. “Although I’m afraid that the title would not be considered worthy in most gatherings.”
“Everyone’s quick to accuse army suppliers of corruption,” Barras said, “but the fact is that the French Republic would have collapsed long ago without them.” He made a signal with his hand; the twelve valets moved in unison, filling our glasses with Madeira, taking away the dishes. Then he pulled a deck of cards from out of the side table, threw a sack of coins on the table. “Shall we have a quick game before dessert? How about five hundred to start?” He leaned toward me. “I’ll advance you,” he whispered, tossing out a second sack. “That’s for Madame Bonaparte, lads, but be careful.” He winked at his guests, “She plays to win.”
(I did: fifteen hundred.)
May 21—back home in Paris.
Indisposed again—fever, terrible pain. It was a mistake to go to Grosbois. I hardly have the strength to hold this quill! I’ve been examined by three doctors—Thérèse’s, Barras’s and my own Dr. Cucé. They stood about my bed scratching their heads. Last night the pain was so violent, I feared I would not see the dawn.
May 24.
The flowers came on suddenly and frightfully. And with such pain! I feared I was going to die. I felt light, as if I could float. I felt myself flying. Lisette covered me with a bed sheet. “I’m sorry about the mess,” I said, closing my eyes.
Later.
“Madame Bonaparte, you are healing, the morbid condition of the uterus has improved, but I regret to inform you that you are not…”
Not with child, alas. “Was I before, Dr. Cucé?”
He scratched his chin. “A mole, perhaps?”
A mole?
[Undated]
From Madame Campan’s book:
A Mole is a Mass generated in the Uterus, which may be mistaken for an Infant in the Womb. Physicians affirm that all Moles are real Conceptions which cannot happen unless there has been some Intercourse between the two Sexes. Nor do they believe that a Woman can become pregnant through Imagination. Hence as often as we meet Moles, we may assure that there has been Co-habitation with Man.
May 28.
I started a letter to Bonaparte, to tell him, but couldn’t.
Headquarters at Milan, 20 Prairial
Every day death leaps around me: is life worth so much fuss? Farewell, Josephine. Stay in Paris, do not write; at least respect my solitude. A thousand knives stab my heart; do not plunge them in deeper.—B.P.
23 Prairial
Josephine, where will you be when you get this letter? If in Paris, my misery is certain! I have nothing left but to die.—B.P.
Late afternoon, around 4:00.
Thérèse saw the distress in my eyes. “What is it?”
I confessed to her my fears. I told her how disturbing Bonaparte’s letters were. “I don’t know what to think. He says things that frighten me. It’s as if he’s in a fever. I’ll get a letter telling me to be careful, to take care of my health, not to come to Italy—and then a few days later I get a letter saying that he’s going to kill himself because I haven’t arrived!”
“Do you think he might be a little…?” She made a twirling motion at her temple.
Tears spilled down my cheeks. “No, of course not.” Although, in fact, that was my deepest fear. “It’s just that he becomes so upset, I fear he might…”
“Step in front of a cannon?”
I nodded, staring down at my hands. They were the hands of an older woman—not my hands, surely. “He wants me with him.”
“So go.”
“Thérèse! A battlefield is no place for a woman. And what about Hortense and Eugène?”
“Your Aunt Désirée will look after them.”
“But my health—”
“Is improving.”
I sat back. “You really think I should?” I felt as if I’d been condemned.
She took my hand. “Remember how it was during the Terror, how we were fighting for something bigger than we were?”
I nodded impatiently. What did that have to do with it?
“It’s not over yet,” she said. “I know, we like to think it is. We dance, we play cards, we go to the theatre. I admit it! I’m the first one at a fête and the last one to leave. And why not? We’re the survivors. Death tapped us on the shoulder and we escaped. Life is short, so why not enjoy it? But we’re fooling ourselves. The Republic is faltering. Everything our loved ones died for is at stake. Our beloved Republic is falling and yet we dance on, trying to ignore it.”
“But Thérèse, what does this have to do with whether or not I should go to Italy? Saving the Republic has nothing to do with me,” I said, a feeling of anger rising up in me.
“Would you concede that it might have something to do with your husband?”
Yes, I did believe it possible, that much depended on Bonaparte—why, I could not say. In my most secret heart, I believed he could save us—and worse, that we needed to be saved.
Noon, 27 Prairial
My life is a perpetual nightmare. A deathly premonition stops me from breathing. I no longer live. I have lost more than life, more than happiness, more than repose. I am almost without hope. If your illness is dangerous, I warn you, I will leave immediately for Paris.—B.P.
In which I finally depart
June 19, 1796, early, not yet noon.
Barras was resistant at first. “It’s victory nerves, that’s all,” he insisted.
“Paul, this is serious. It’s more than nerves.” I dared not tell him the full extent of my fears, that Bonaparte might be mad.
“Look, it’s simply unreasonable of him to expect you to join him.”
“Please, listen to me!” Barras looked at me, startled. I’d never raised my voice to him. “If…if I d
on’t go to Italy,” I said, more calmly this time, “Bonaparte will come here.” This was the one argument that was likely to persuade him, I knew.
“To Paris? He would leave his troops in the middle of a campaign?”
Yes, I nodded. He would. He will.
“That would get him court-martialled.”
I nodded. Ruined! Shot!
“That’s strange. He didn’t mention any of this in his last letter to me.” He looked over the stacks of paper covering his desk. “Here it is,” he said, holding a letter up and squinting at it. “Just the usual business—his conditions for the armistice agreement with the Pope.”
“Bonaparte is dealing with the Pope?”
Barras smirked. “Getting a little high and mighty, one could say?”
“It’s the Republic he represents that is high and mighty.”
“That’s the problem—that’s what’s getting the Directors so upset. Bonaparte doesn’t represent the Republic, and yet he’s acting as if he does. Ah, here’s the part.” Barras cleared his throat and read out loud. “‘I hate women. I am in despair. My wife does not come—she must have a lover who is holding her in Paris.’” Barras looked at me, amused. “So who is this lover?”
The Josephine B. Trilogy Page 46
