The Last Great Dance on Earth

by Sandra Gulland

  The renovations at Malmaison that you described amaze me: arcades and moving mirrors? I like the idea of one big room on the ground floor instead of three little ones—better for a ball.

  I’m surprised Hortense has rejected Citoyen Mun—I thought he was an excellent choice. I’II think of some other possibilities.

  A million kisses,

  Your loving son, Eugène (Captain Beauharnais)

  April 30.

  At a salon last night, Caroline’s singing was received with audible snickers. “Someone should tell her not to perform with such zest,” a woman whispered to me. “People will think her impure.”

  The comment angered me, and I rose to Caroline’s defence—Bonaparte “zest,” after all, has saved the nation—but, in truth, someone does need to have a word with the girl. She tries so hard to be noticed, but her dramatic grimaces, her quivering lips and panting sighs are only viewed as laughable.

  May 1—Malmaison, blowing rain.

  When I suggested to Caroline that her “wonderful” singing would be better appreciated if she were to perform quietly, without embellishments, she turned on me!

  “I don’t need your help,” she said with such spite that I was left speechless.

  “Sometimes I don’t know what to make of Caroline,” I told Mimi later.

  “She’s dangerous, Yeyette,” Mimi said. “I saw it in her cards.”

  I had to laugh. When I think of Caroline, I imagine a plump powder-puff of a girl. Jealous, yes, and temperamental, certainly—but dangerous?

  [Undated]

  Mimi slipped me a folded note with my morning cup of hot chocolate. “Just as I thought,” she said.

  I workd in the Dineing Room all week. Shee say to her Husband they wood have Everything but for the Old Woman & her 2 Children. Shee say the 1st Consul must get rid of Her. Shee say Shee will find a way.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, perplexed. The note was crudely written on the brown paper used to wrap fish in. “Who is this ‘shee’?”

  “Madame Caroline.” Mimi looked smug. “I told you she’s not to be trusted.”

  I reread the note. Was I “the old woman”? “Who wrote this?”

  “One of Madame Caroline’s footmen.”

  “You’ve got a spy in Caroline’s household?”

  “Old Gontier’s nephew. He can be trusted.”

  “Mimi, that’s not a good idea! Please—don’t do it again.”

  “So I have to pay him myself?”

  “How much?” I said with a laugh. (Fifty francs—mon Dieu.)

  11:20 P.M.

  I keep rereading the spy note, puzzling over it. Can I believe it? Can I afford not to?

  May 3.

  I am writing this in the downstairs drawing room at Malmaison, at my lovely new escritoire—mahogany, with Egyptian touches in gold, very elegant. It is after three o’clock. Soon I’ll go down to the kitchen to see how the dinner preparations are coming along. Quite well, I suspect, from the fragrant scent of roast chicken (Bonaparte’s favourite) that fills the air. I just sent two of the domestics to ride out to meet Bonaparte on the road. I worry about his safety, frankly. “But whatever you do, don’t let on that I sent you to meet him,” I warned them.

  May 4—still at Malmaison (we return to Paris in the morning).

  Old Gontier, my man-of-all-work, informed me around one this afternoon that the stonemasons had left, that the mantel was finally finished.

  At last, I thought. The stone dust has been driving us mad.

  “But Agathe says to come see,” Gontier said. “There’s something she wants to show you.”

  The mantel looked excellent, although the scullery maid had quite a job to do cleaning up the dust. “You wanted me to see something, Agathe?”

  She got up off her knees, wiping her hands on her stained apron. “This.” She pointed to a snuffbox on the desk.

  I recognized the intricate mother-of-pearl inlay in a Roman motif. “It’s Bonaparte’s.”

  “But the First Consul’s is chipped on one corner.”

  She was right. All Bonaparte’s possessions are scarred in some way. “Perhaps someone left it here,” I suggested, feeling its weight. But why an exact replica? “Agathe, could you ask the groom to send for Fouché?” I said, carefully putting the box back down.

  “The Minister of Police?”

  Yes, I nodded. My old friend—the man who knows everything.

  “Poison,” Fouché said, prying the snuffbox open with his long yellow thumbnail. “When inhaled, it will cause the victim to expire within one revolution of the minute hand.”

  Poison! I sat down, opened my fan. If it hadn’t been for Agathe’s apprehension, her sharp eye …! “Are you sure, Fouché?” Had murderers been in our midst—in our home? The masons, perhaps? I’d offered them refreshment, inquired after their well-being.

  “Someone went to some trouble making a replica.” Fouché traced the inlay with his finger. “The First Consul must be notified immediately.”

  “He’s here now,” I said, hearing a horse. Only Bonaparte comes through the gate at a gallop—he knows no other pace.

  “Poison in my snuffbox?” Bonaparte scoffed.

  “It’s not really yours, Bonaparte,” I told him. “It just looks like yours.” “It’s an excellent reproduction. Who made it?” “One of the stonemasons, likely,” Fouché said. “But why?”

  “Certainly, there are any number of possibilities, First Consul. Revolutionaries long for a return to anarchy and the Royalists for a return to monarchy. Extremists of every persuasion want you dead. It is, one might say, the price of your popularity.”

  “It looks like snuff.” Bonaparte started to take a pinch. I grabbed his hand. “I’m not that easy to kill off,” he said, laughing.

  “Bonaparte, at the very least you shouldn’t ride alone,” I told him. “You should have someone with you.” And guards at all times, and …

  “Bah!” Bonaparte said, glowering.

  “First Consul, with respect, I suggest you consider it,” Fouché said. “A minimum of precaution would put your wife at ease. For some reason, she prefers you alive.”

  “I refuse to be coddled like some feckless ninny!”

  “Don’t worry,” Fouché told me later, on leaving. “We’ll protect him. We’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t know it.”

  * Josephine’s childhood name was Rose and her nickname Yeyette. Mimi had been a slave on Josephine’s family’s sugar plantation in Martinique (“Martinico”). She and Josephine grew up together and had a sisterly relationship. It is possible that they were, in fact, half-sisters; Josephine’s father may have been Mimi’s father. Josephine had purchased Mimi’s freedom a few years previously.

  * “Italy” in 1800 comprised various independent states, including several northern territories claimed by Austria.

  In which I try (but fail) to accept

  May 5, 1800, 11:45 P.M.—Tuileries Palace.

  Bonaparte and I had just returned from the Opéra when his sister and brother were announced.

  “Joseph has something urgent to discuss with you before you go,” Caroline said. Bonaparte’s older brother Joseph stood behind her, dressed entirely in pale yellow brocade.

  “Before I go where?” Bonaparte demanded.

  “To Italy,” Caroline answered, offering her snuffbox to her brothers before taking a pinch herself. (She claims it calms her sickness of the stomach, which has been violent throughout her first month.)

  “How did you find out I’m leaving? No one is supposed to know.”

  “What we want to know is what happens if you get killed,” Caroline said, refusing my offer of a chair. Joseph sat down instead, his hands pressed between his knees.

  “If I die—or rather, when I die—I’ll be put in a coffin,” Bonaparte said evenly, reaching for a paper knife and slicing open an envelope.

  “It’s not a jesting matter, Napoleon! Who would run this country?” Caroline paced with her hands behind
her back (as Bonaparte so often does), her masculine movements at odds with her ensemble: a gauze creation wildly embellished with bows and wired flowers.

  “According to the Constitution, the Second Consul,” Bonaparte said, looking up from the letter.

  “Cambacérès?” Joseph’s voice was tinged with disgust.

  “That would set an interesting example for the nation,” Caroline said scornfully. “Imagine—the French Republic led by a man who claims that a country is governed by good dinner parties, whose passions run to food, expensive wine and young men.”

  “Second Consul Cambacérès is a highly capable individual.” Bonaparte crumpled the letter and hurled it into the roaring fire.

  Oh-oh, I thought. I rang for the butler: a collation. Anything.

  “Your successor must be within the clan,” Caroline said, squaring her shoulders.

  “And I am the eldest,” Joseph said, scratching the end of his nose.

  Bonaparte looked at his brother and laughed. “You want my job, Joseph? You don’t know what’s involved. You’d have to rise before eleven. You might actually have to work a day or two.”

  “It is our right!” Caroline said, her cherub cheeks pink, her eyes blazing.

  “My right,” Joseph said.

  “The French Republic is not a family fiefdom!” Bonaparte exploded. By the time the butler arrived with a tray of wine and sweetmeats, they had departed in a temper. Mon Dieu.

  6:30 in the morning (cold).

  Bonaparte left before dawn. “I’ll be back in a month, I promise,” he said, pulling a greatcoat on over his consul’s uniform.

  “Please, Bonaparte, take me with you.” My trunk was packed!

  “I need you in Paris, Josephine. No matter what you hear, you must act as if all is well.”

  “Even if I hear what?” I asked warily.

  “Even if you hear that I’ve been defeated, or that I’ve been, killed. Even if you hear that your son has been—” No! I put my fingers over his mouth.

  “The public will be watching. They will assume that you know. Always tell people I am victorious.”

  “But what if the rumours are true?”

  “I’m not going to be defeated. I have you, don’t I? My guardian angel,” he said, kissing me tenderly—his good-luck kiss, he calls it.

  Le 21 Floréal,* Geneva

  I love you very much. My Josephine is very dear to me. A thousand kindnesses to the little cousin. Advise her to be wise, do you hear? N.

  May 14—Malmaison.

  Hortense squinted to make out Bonaparte’s messy scrawl. “I think that says ‘little cousin,’ Maman.” She frowned. “What little cousin?”

  “Are you sure that’s what it says?” I asked, taking the letter back—flushing, I confess. Bonaparte has a habit of referring to a very private part of me by code name. “It must mean something else,” I said, turning so that she might not see my smile.

  May 24, 1800, Aosta

  Chère Maman,

  A quick note just to let you know that we are over the Alps. The passage took five days. It was icy—we literally slid into Italy! So large an army has not crossed the Saint-Bernard Pass since the days of Charlemagne. It made me realize how much can be accomplished by a leader who has perseverance and knows his own mind. You know of whom I speak.

  Your devoted son, Eugène

  Note—Citoyen Henri Robiquet is a good possibility.

  May 30—Paris.

  “My brother has requested that I give you thirty thousand francs out of his account, Madame,” Joseph said with a hint of a bow. “I thought it wise to take care of the matter before I made my departure.” Belatedly, he removed his hat and stuck it under his arm.

  “You’re leaving, Joseph?”

  “I’m departing for Italy this afternoon.”

  “You’ll be seeing Bonaparte? If only I had known—I could have accompanied you.”

  “It was an abrupt decision.”

  “Is there a problem?” I asked, suddenly fearful.

  “My brother Napoleon may die.”

  I felt for the back of a chair to steady myself. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “And Lucien has claimed the right to succession.”

  “Lucien Bonaparte? What right?” I asked, confused. Anyway, wasn’t Lucien in mourning for his wife?

  “Exactly! Lucien may be Minister of the Interior, but I am thirty-two and Lucien has only just turned twenty-five. I am the eldest. It is my right, not his. This must be settled immediately, before Napoleon is killed in battle.”

  “Oh,” I said weakly. “Of course.”

  June 14, Saint-Germain-en-Laye

  Chère Madame Bonaparte,

  I know how busy you are these days with official and unofficial duties, but perhaps you could spare a moment of your time for your poor aunt and her ailing husband? The Marquis has taken a turn. If you are unable to call, at least pray for him.

  Your godmother, Aunt Désirée

  June 17—Saint-Germain.

  Aunt Désirée met me at the door, her face white with rice powder. “Thank God you’re here! The Marquis is dying—from strawberries, of all things.”

  “Aunt Désirée, please don’t alarm me. Are you serious?” I don’t know why the possibility of the old Marquis’s demise surprised me. We’d celebrated his eighty-seventh birthday not long ago. It was a miracle he was alive, but because he had lived so long, I’d come to think he would always be with us.

  “Oh yes, I assure you, he is at the heavenly gates. My goodness, but it’s a hectic business. The doctor has been here three times today already, and each time costs eleven livres—I mean francs. What do we call money now? I wish they’d stop changing the names of things. Perhaps you could have a word with your husband about it.”

  “It is francs now.” The air was as thick as that in a hothouse. There were fresh-cut flowers on every surface. “Did you get my letter about Eugène being safely over the Alps?”

  “And that’s another thing,” Aunt Désirée said, her hand on the stair railing. “If we’re at war with England, why are we fighting Austria? And if we’re fighting Austria, why are we fighting in Italy?”

  “It’s hard to explain,” I said, following Aunt Désirée’s ample posterior up the stairs. How did we get onto politics? And what about the Marquis! “The flowers are beautiful,” I observed, changing the subject.

  “The mayor of Saint-Germain sends us a fresh bouquet every day,” Aunt Désirée said, her taffeta skirts swishing with a voluptuous languor I found disconcerting, under the circumstances. “Monsieur Pierre, we call him. He and the Marquis played piquet together every evening—until the Marquis ate all those strawberries and started dying, that is,” she said, coming to a stop in front of the Marquis’s bedchamber, catching her breath. “Monsieur Pierre won every game, and so that’s why he sends flowers.”

  “Oh,” I said, trying to figure out the logic.

  “The doctor applied leeches to the Marquis’s stomach and then a laxative blister, which very nearly carried him off right then and there,” Aunt Désirée hissed, so that a maid dusting the wainscotting should not hear. “Frankly, the doctor is a simpleton! He objects to the turpentine enemas I give the Marquis, when it’s perfectly obvious that I’ve been keeping my husband alive all these years with them.”

  Turpentine?

  “Mixed with snail water,” she assured me, her hand on the crystal doorknob, “which I make with sweet wine from the Canary Islands—but where am I supposed to buy Canary wine now? If I’d known there was going to be war with England again, I’d have bought a supply. Maybe next time your husband decides to make war, he can let me know ahead of time.”

  Aunt Désirée had so many misconceptions, I didn’t know where to

  begin. “Bonaparte tried to get England to agree to a peace, but—”

  “The solution is plain to see, my dear. If we gave the Pretender his rightful throne back, England would leave us alone.”

  Put a Bourbon king
back on the throne? Had we gone through the Revolution for nothing? “Aunt Désirée, it’s not—”

  “I don’t care what people say,” Aunt Désirée said with conviction. “Too much freedom is not a good thing. What’s wrong with feudalism? It’s impossible to get good help these days, for one thing. Marquis de Beauharnais,” she yelled, throwing open the door. “It’s Rose to see you. You remember: Yeyette. Or Josephine, as she’s calling herself now.”

  The Marquis, sunk deep into the centre of a thick feather bed, turned his head slowly. “You know—Madame Bonaparte,” Aunt Désirée yelled in his ear.

  “Bon à Part Té!” the dear man croaked.

  June 18—still in Saint—Germain.

  I’m taking a quiet moment to reflect (strengthen). The Marquis went quietly—”Like a lamp without oil,” Aunt Désirée said—in the arms of his wife and his son François. Even dear old Aunt Fanny managed to arrive “in time,” dressed for the occasion in a sequined ball gown of tattered ruffles.

  The Marquis’s last words were whispered to me: “Marry Hortense to a man with good teeth.” I told Aunt Désirée that he said, “I married a good woman.”

  I’m surprised, frankly, to feel so overcome. The Marquis had a good long life, and he didn’t suffer. May God be with him, may he rest in peace.

  June 21—back in Paris.

  A mounted courier sent by the Minister of Police brought me back to Paris in a state of alarm. “You look pale,” Fouché observed, on greeting me.

  “I’m anxious, I confess.” Paris seemed deserted. “Why are the streets so empty?” And why had he sent for me?

  “Everyone has headed south in the expectation of hearing news from Italy,” he said, tugging at his stained cuffs. My friend was expensively attired, but even so the effect managed to be shoddy.

  “What news?”

  “The city is rife with rumours. In every café in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine idlers are claiming that your husband’s army has been defeated in Italy. The opposition is openly making plans to snatch the Republic from the grasp of ‘the Corsican’—as they call the First Consul.”