by Alan Schom
There was a very special atmosphere about Malmaison, totally secluded amid its sprawling park of ancient sombrous trees, where stone walls and iron grillework gates kept the world at bay. Here, more than at any other residence inhabited by Bonaparte, time seemed to stand still and take on more human proportions. As Napoleon’s young new secretary, Claude Méneval, remarked, “he found this patriarchal existence attractive. At his retreat of Malmaison Napoleon seemed like any other father in the midst of his family.” “The only other place I found Bonaparte as contented as he was on a battlefield, was in the gardens of Malmaison,” Bourrienne confirmed.[631] And it was here that Josephine appeared at her best to her husband, in the gardens that she so loved, collecting flowers, or painting. Here her great spending follies could somehow be forgotten, at least for the moment, including the 1.2-million-franc debt incurred during the Egyptian fiasco (of which Napoleon ultimately paid only 300,000 francs), and the 250,000-franc pearl necklace (formerly owned by Marie-Antoinette) that Berthier had secretly paid for (to avoid Bonaparte’s anger) by diverting funds from the army budget intended for military hospitals in Italy.[632]
“He had everything required...to be a pleasant man, except the wish to do so,” Bourrienne commented. “He was far too domineering to attract people, however.” But his secretary and old school friend added, “I can assure you that Bonaparte, when removed from the political world, could be sensitive, good, and capable of showing pity. He liked children very much...He could be genial and even most indulgent so far as human weaknesses were concerned.”[633]
Laure Junot also related another incident at Malmaison, this one witnessed by her husband and revealing yet another aspect of the man’s complicated character.
One day a young man appeared on foot before the sentries at the estate’s main gates, asking to see the first consul. After talking to three of Napoleon’s aides-de-camp — de Lacué, Duroc, and Junot — who were summoned to question the suspicious character, his persistent request was finally related to Bonaparte himself.
The young man, who by his bearing, appearance, and educated speech was obviously a gentleman and probably an aristocrat, wanted to enter the newly expanded Ecole Polytechnique but lacked the formal coursework required for admission. The Abbé Bossu, who was responsible for making the final decision on applicants, had categorically rejected this young man, who in fact had never been enrolled in any school but who had instead been educated by his highly cultivated father. This was unacceptable to the good abbé, himself a product of the revolutionary classes. Not completely discouraged, the young man had walked all the way to Malmaison to appeal the case to Napoleon himself. “I am sure that when he has put any questions to me that he may judge proper, he will find that I meet the entrance requirements.”
Duroc, still a bit dubious, nevertheless informed Bonaparte. “So the young enthusiast would have me question him?” Rubbing his chin and smiling, he paced back and forth for a while, considering this rather extraordinary request. Then he asked Duroc, “How old is he?” “Perhaps seventeen or eighteen, General.” “Let him come in.” A few minutes later the young man crossed the miniature drawbridge entrance to the mansion and was escorted to the library.
“Well, young man, so you wish to be examined by me, do you?” The youth was so stirred that he could not even open his mouth, now that his great moment had actually come. Seeing that the boy — amazed no doubt at his own success — was too excited to reply, Napoleon wisely had Duroc lead him to another room to calm down. Half an hour later he was summoned again. This time the young man could speak, giving his name, Eugène de Kervalègne, and explaining that his father, a cultured, retired gentleman and an excellent mathematician, had personally instructed him over the years. Napoleon then started asking him a series of difficult questions. The young man easily answered them all to Bonaparte’s satisfaction. The first consul then sat down and wrote a note. He instructed the young man to give it to the Abbé Bossu personally. The dumbfounded lad thanked him profusely and left quickly on his quest. “Do you see that young man?” Bonaparte said to Junot. “If I had a thousand such as he the conquest of the world would be a mere promenade.”
Rushing back to Paris, the student returned to the Ecole Polytechnique and entered the office of the Abbé Bossu and silently handed him the note. The arrogant abbé’s mouth dropped as he read the following: “M. Bossu will receive M. Eugène de Kervalègne. I have examined him myself, and find him worthy of admission. Bonaparte.”
No one could argue with Napoleon. Kervalègne proved an excellent student and later enjoyed a distinguished career as an engineer with the Department of Bridges and Roads.
Whether at the Tuileries, St.-Cloud, or at Malmaison, Bonaparte fluctuated between great activity and almost profound, languishing repose.
“He was indefatigable, not only on horseback and on campaigns, but [in the office, or the garden], he sometimes walked for five or six hours at a time without even noticing it.” It was usually just after such long periods of thought that he would summon Bourrienne and begin dictating his most important new projects, decrees, and decisions.
When at work at Malmaison, Bourrienne, who owned a small house in nearby Rueil, would awaken the first consul at seven o’clock, at which time his valet, Louis Constant, would pour his bath. Frequently taking two hours in a steaming tub (with the breakdown of the Peace of Amiens he spent six!), Bourrienne would read translations of the latest English and German newspapers. Afterward Constant would shave him and comb his thin brown hair.
In his study, the long library of Malmaison, he would immediately set to work, reading his correspondence and petitions drawn up by his secretary the previous night. He would then interview the petitioners, though few ever reached him at Malmaison. The restless Napoleon would often sit on Bourrienne’s side of the desk, making it difficult for his secretary to write. Occasionally First Consul Bonaparte, the commander of the nation’s armies and navy, would plunk himself down on an embarrassed Bourrienne’s lap, putting his arm around his neck, even running his hand through his hair. It was bizarre to say the least. Méneval later reported similar incidents. At other times Napoleon, leaving Bourrienne in peace to get on with his work, would hum or sing a line or two from one of his favorite operas (although he didn’t enjoy concerts), invariably off key, sometimes in a harsh falsetto, while with his penknife he dug away pieces of wood from the right arm of a chair. Finally, at 10:00 A.M. the butler would arrive, announcing — “Le général est servi” and he would repair to the tentlike dining room, where he would often be joined by Monge, Berthollet, and his various aides-de-camp. His favorite dish was poulet à la provengale. Dinner, too, was served early, at 5:00 P.M.[634]
As the Bonapartes usually spent the weekends at Malmaison during the early Consulate, Sunday became the day for amusement, although Napoleon as a rule loathed formal gatherings in Josephine’s music gallery. Josephine, who unlike her husband could sing in tune, loved the opera; her favorite instrument was the harp, on which however she could play only one or two melodies, which she repeated annoyingly year after year. Fortunately, in the spring of 1802, the Neapolitan composer Giovanni Paisiello was brought to Paris by the first consul, who appointed him director of both the Opéra and of the Conservatory of Music. Although Paisiello played for Napoleon and his guests on weekends at Malmaison and stayed long enough to compose a mediocre opera, Prosperine, despite impressive fees and appeals from the first consul, he soon returned to the more placid charms of his native Italy. Another Italian artist brought to Paris, Antonio Canova, was commissioned to do various pieces of sculpture, including large likenesses of Napoleon and Pauline in white marble, but he too left as soon as possible. Napoleonic France did not agree with them.[635]
The greatest pastime and passion of Malmaison was the theater, which involved nearly everyone directly or indirectly. Josephine ordered the construction of a theater seating some two hundred guests, among whom Napoleon was an eager first subscriber. It was one of t
he very few things that Napoleon and Josephine greatly enjoyed together. He certainly did not permit her even to discuss politics with him. “Let her weave, let her knit,” he would say, dismissing the very idea with a wave of the hand.[636]
The theater, however, remained a passion everyone in the family seemed to be involved in to one degree or another. Napoleon soon set himself up as a little god, the final authority capable of censoring the Parisian theater, in particular the Théâtre Français and the Comédie Française, and even the Opéra. Thus he had piece after piece suppressed, especially Voltaire’s tragedies, including Zaire, Mérope, Mort de Cesar, and Brutus, feeling that such serious pieces could incite audiences. Comedies and farces were better suited to keep the French public from dwelling on thought-provoking subjects. His favorite author, however, was Corneille, whom he admired for both his seriousness and perceptiveness, and for “his profound understanding of the human heart, the depth of his political views,” as Napoleon put it: “If a man like Corneille were alive today, I would make him my prime minister.” Bonaparte loved in particular Corneille’s Cinna, which was produced time and again at Malmaison.
Theatrical productions at Malmaison were thus taken most seriously, the plays directed either by the greatest tragedian of the day, Talma himself, or by Michot (director of the Théâtre Français). The cast included Josephine’s children, Eugène (his favorite role was that of a valet) and Hortense, Bourrienne (whom Napoleon finally gave a few hours off on Sunday afternoons in order to practice for the latest production), General Lauriston (one of Napoleon’s more ambitious aides-de-camp), Vivant Denon (heading the newly organized Louvre), some of the generals’ wives, and occasionally one of Napoleon’s sisters, including the overbearing Elisa. But Bourrienne, Eugène, and Hortense remained the mainstay of the troupe. They were given an unlimited budget and granted a sumptuous wardrobe, administered by Josephine. The first consul rarely missed a performance when in town.
Méneval, who was to succeed Bourrienne as Napoleon’s principal secretary (but not on the stage) in 1802, praised the first consul for “the simplicity of his manner” during his sojourns in the country. “I found him patient, indulgent, easy to live with, not at all demanding, of a gaiety often turning quite raucous.” (Young Méneval was probably the only person ever to describe Bonaparte as “easy to live with” and undemanding.)
Although he could be relaxed at Malmaison, wandering about the grounds, inspecting the rare new plants and animals collected by Josephine, including her famous Egyptian gazelle (which he habitually fed his snuff), his absence from Malmaison was noted by practically everyone with evident pleasure, as Napoleon himself was well aware. “Alas, it is not at all pleasant living with a great man,” remarked Bourrienne, who knew whereof he wrote, having spent every day with him for the better part of eleven years. Living with an egotistical whirlwind was not easy.
Like just about everyone else, however, Bourrienne did have a real soft spot for the feckless, not very bright, but warm and lovable Josephine, and felt much more at ease in her company. “The good Josephine,” he recalled, “who can be reproached only perhaps with having been a bit too feminine...The excellent Josephine carried out the honors of her position with such grace and geniality. Everyone breathed more easily, became more cheerful in the absence of the master...All changed again immediately upon his return.”
Napoleon one day asked Fontanes: “What do you think they would say if I suddenly died?” There being no reply from the abashed architect, Napoleon answered his own question: “Well, I shall tell you. They would simply say, ‘Ah! we can breathe at last! That’s the end of him, and good riddance.’”
It was not only that Napoleon, like both Talleyrand and Fouché, could carry on long, relentless monologues — even a patient Bourrienne admitting that sometimes he talked “a little too much,” despite the often riveting quality of his narrative. But on occasion he deliberately went out of his way to upset people, especially women. “He rarely had anything kind to say to them,” Bourrienne noted. Napoleon would point out that their arms were red, or that their hairstyles were ugly, or that he didn’t like their dresses. He might suddenly ask every woman in the room her age. He frequently humiliated them in public by telling them of their husbands’ mistresses. He would never admit to being in the wrong, however, or to having made any sort of error. Sometimes in anger he would clench his fists and threaten to strike someone, as he actually did to Berthier on more than one occasion, or he would horsewhip a coach driver who did not obey his orders. He might later repent and pay the abused person gold, even lots of it (Berthier, for example, became one of the wealthiest men in France), but that did not bring love, friendship, respect, or a sense of loyalty.
Napoleon was extraordinarily jealous of anyone who outshone him or captured the limelight. Thus, when at Marengo, Kellermann helped save the battle, Napoleon scarcely acknowledged his actions, failing even to promote him, unlike less deserving officers there. And yet it was thanks largely to Desaix and Kellermann that Marengo was not a great French disaster. Marshal Davout was not rewarded for winning the Battle of Auerstädt until years later. Augereau and Moreau were both belittled publicly at one time or another, despite their noted martial achievements.
Bourrienne was puzzled by a man he considered the greatest soldier of the day but who felt so insecure that he had to commit blatant injustices against others when they achieved some individual distinction. “One has to be firm,” Napoleon would then counter. “One must have a firm heart, otherwise one should not get mixed up in wars and politics,” which of course explained nothing.
He would complain to Bourrienne, “I know very well that I don’t have any true friends.” But he then would add, “‘Friendship’ is just a meaningless word. I don’t love anyone. No, I don’t even love my own brothers. Well, perhaps Joseph just a little.” Yet there were men who literally would — and did — readily give their lives for him, who were fanatically dedicated to him. Generals Rapp and Marbot at the beginning, Méneval and Lannes for a long time, and foremost of all, Andoche Junot.
Napoleon perplexed just about everyone at one time or another, leading more than one person to wonder about his stability — this man was who was constantly at war — with his friends as well as with neighboring countries, ordering hundreds of thousands of men to their deaths over the years; this man who could give generals and admirals several contradictory sets of orders for the same campaign; this man who could attempt to strike his own officers; this man who could one day save a family from penury and destitution, and then harass a helpless pregnant woman, such as Jérôme’s American wife, or oppress the miniature Dutch state so relentlessly. “The rumor was spread that the Emperor had gone mad, and while not exactly believing it, no one seemed really surprised by the idea,” Victorine de Chastenay commented later, after it was whispered that Bonaparte was being treated by the celebrated Viennese alienist, Dr. Philippe Pinel.
If there was one thing Napoleon could not abide it was treachery, especially in the form of abandonment by one of his closest followers (although of course he himself had thought nothing of abandoning an entire army in Egypt). He would react with a sadistic response worthy of a madman. Such was the case with his old classmate and secretary, Bourrienne, who — exhausted after more than ten years of work that did not allow for a single day off — announced that for reasons of health he had to resign.
He first gave notice to Napoleon in the late spring of 1801. Napoleon merely laughed. “Well, now, Bourrienne, [Dr.] Corvisart says that you do not have a year to live!” But nothing changed, the long ceaseless hours, the days of unremitting work, the nonexistence of his family life. Then it happened.
On February 27, 1802, Napoleon dictated a message for Talleyrand and ordered Bourrienne to have it dispatched as usual. There were messengers in the palace for that very service, and Bourrienne arranged to have it sent. But when Talleyrand arrived the next day, it was learned that he had never received the message (he in fact had
spent Saturday night away from home). Napoleon summoned Bourrienne before Talleyrand himself, demanding an explanation. Bourrienne explained, but Napoleon, furious with Talleyrand for not having left a message with his servants as to his whereabouts, instead turned all his fury on Bourrienne. “Get out of here! You are a goddamn idiot!” It was Bourrienne’s turn to be furious — insulted and humiliated about something he was not responsible for. Then and there he wrote out his resignation again.
Napoleon had Duroc inform him that he accepted it. Bourrienne was pleased, but when Duroc conducted him down to the first consul at 8:00 P.M., Bonaparte screamed at him again: “All right, damn it, that’s the way it is then, get out!” Trembling with fury, Bourrienne left, showed Duroc where all the papers and registers were, and found a temporary apartment elsewhere. The following day Napoleon, his old genial self again, summoned Bourrienne to say good-bye, first asking him what post he would like next. When Bourrienne indicated the Tribunate, however, Napoleon turned him down.
That Tuesday, while Bourrienne was in the process of moving out of his small apartment in the Tuileries, he was summoned again at 4:00 P.M. He found Napoleon, Josephine, and Hortense; it was all nicely staged, the women imploring him to continue working. But Bourrienne was adamant. Then, just as he was leaving the palace, Duroc approached him. “Mon cher, he wants you to stay. I beg of you, don’t resist. Do this for me.” Bourrienne reluctantly accepted and returned to Bonaparte. It was to prove the worst mistake of his life. A triumphant Bonaparte invited him to dine with him, something he had not done in a long time.
But the grueling schedule resumed, and Bourrienne “sincerely regretted” having returned, as a result of Napoleon’s “affected geniality.” He quickly realized that he had been recalled to hold the fort until Napoleon found a replacement for him. No one ever quit Napoleon and got away with it. He finally found Claude-François de Méneval, “a young man of good family, hard-working, mild-mannered, and discreet,” as Bourrienne described him. The next thing Bourrienne knew, Napoleon fired him. “He never forgave me for having dared leave him...and awaited the moment he could punish me for it.” Though assuring him that “I am disposed to place you promptly in a new appropriate post, suitable to the public service, when the moment is right.”
