Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe

by Sandra Gulland

  I slipped on his glove. It did fit. “You are a gentle and kind man, Captain Charles.” I took several deep breaths, laid my head back against the hard, cracked leather. Be strong, I told myself. It wouldn’t do to faint. Not now, not at the start of such a long and perilous journey.

  * Merveilleuse: an extravagantly (and wildly) dressed woman of the period, typically of the newly rich class of profiteers, bankers and financiers.

  * General Lazare Hoche had taken on the difficult task of quelling the uprisings (fuelled by émigrés and England) against the Revolution in the south of France.

  * Chauffe-pieds: literally “hot feet,” the term given to the criminals who would extort what they wished by burning the feet of their victims.

  * The Marquis’s son Alexandre, Josephine’s first husband, had been arrested for “allowing” the Austrians to invade Mayence (Mainz, in German), on the west bank of the Rhine River. The French traditionally believed that the Rhine River was their natural boundary.

  II

  La Regina

  Ogni talento matta.

  (Every talented man is a madman.)

  —Italian proverb

  In which I join the Liberator of Italy

  June 29, 1796—Briare.

  Only two days travelling and already we are miserable. Citoyen Hamelin is distraught over fleas in his coach. Colonel Junot is made cross by the slow pace. My brother-in-law Joseph is not in good health (due to the effects of his mercury cure), and is disinclined to suffer silently. Thank God, Captain Charles is of our party—he alone is cheerful.

  July 5—Roanne.

  Today we followed the river road along the Loire to Roanne, a bustling town of merchants and carters. Passing through the market I heard foreign tongues. Roguish men with long black hair and rusty swords observed our entourage with hungry interest.

  It was dusk by the time we pulled into the courtyard of this humble inn, the best in the vicinity. The innkeeper ran out to meet us, waving a leg of chicken in one hand. His beard glistened with grease. He threw the bone to a dog and started gesticulating wildly to Joseph about a courier who had been murdered.

  “It happened not far from here, to the south,” Joseph explained as we climbed the stone steps to the inn. “The courier was carrying promissory notes intended for my brother.”

  “How awful!” I wondered if it was the same courier who had so often brought me Bonaparte’s letters.

  “Yes, it was a goodly sum,” Joseph said, opening the door to the inn for me.

  Inside, the air was sweet with the smell of quince roasting on cinders. I sat down on a bench by the stairs. I had a fever, I feared, and that pain again. “I’ll wait here for Lisette,” I told my brother-in-law, who wished to examine the accommodations. He put his journal and writing kit on the bench and went upstairs. The journal slipped onto the floor, and as I picked it up I couldn’t help but notice an entry that said, “10:15 A.M. J and CC play string game.”

  Citoyen Hamelin clattered in. Quickly I put Joseph’s journal back on top of his writing kit. Josephine and Captain Charles play string game, he had written. Cat’s cradle, he meant—but why note it down? It was child’s play. “Do you realize that the murderer stayed in this very inn?” Hamelin demanded, blinking rapidly. “In the very room I have been assigned?”

  Then Lisette entered, followed by Colonel Junot, his nose pink at the tip. She was wearing her travelling gown without the lace insert, I noticed. The innkeeper’s wife ran to take her basket.

  “Queen Lisette, is it now?” Captain Charles said.

  She glared at him. “If it gets any hotter, I will die,” she said, fluttering her fan.

  “It will be even hotter in Milan,” Colonel Junot said, cracking his knuckles. “But there are ways to cool off. Vigorous exercise is recommended, the type that works up a sweat.”

  “How unladylike,” Lisette said, glancing up to meet Junot’s gaze.

  “Is Colonel Junot married?” Lisette asked me later, admiring my necklace before putting it away in its case.

  “Colonel Junot has yet to find a woman with a sufficiently large dowry,” I said, and then added, “He has a mind to coquet with you, I’ve noticed.”

  “You think he fancies me?”

  I detected a hopeful tone in her voice. “Colonel Junot is the type of man who will always fancy an attractive young woman.” I turned from the looking glass to face her. “Lisette, I hope you understand that it would be unpardonable for you to allow the attentions of an officer.”

  “I do not encourage Colonel Junot, Madame,” she said, helping me into my walking gown.

  “You don’t neglect to wear your lace insert?”

  She flushed. “It needs mending, Madame.”

  “My sweet Lisette,” I said, “you are so young and so very pretty. You must learn to be careful. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Shortly after 4:00 P.M.

  We’ve just returned from a refreshing stroll. Feeling weak yet, I leaned on Captain Charles’s arm as we walked along the river, the other members of our party going on ahead. We talked like old friends: of fashion (the charming high-crowned leghorn hats that women are wearing now, how they look best with hair loose and flowing); of his birthday (he’s twenty-three today, so young); my children (how I miss them already); of novels (he recommended The Sorrows of Young Werther by the German writer Goethe). Then we talked of more serious, financial concerns—the shocking depreciation of our currency, the soaring inflation.

  “I understand you are a financial agent,” I dared to say.

  “That is not the sort of thing a soldier would wisely admit to, Madame.” The captain brushed a black curl out of his eyes—his blue, blue eyes. “Especially to the wife of his commanding general.”

  “I assure you, Captain, I will not mention it to anyone.” Bonaparte, specifically.

  “Then yes, I confess I am an agent—for the Bodin Company, an investment firm based in Lyons. The brothers Bodin—there are two—are from Romans originally. We grew up together.”

  “I once did business with a speculator in Lyons. I recall he mentioned the name Bodin.” I’d made an exceptional profit on a shipment of saltpetre, and then again on an order of lace. “That surprises you?” I asked, perceiving his astonishment.

  “Well, it’s just that—”

  “Women are perfectly capable of doing business, Captain,” I chided him.

  “Yes, Madame, but you would hardly seem to …” He flushed.

  I would hardly seem to need money, he’d started to say. “I won’t bore you with stories of how my children and I went without bread during the Terror, Captain.”

  “It wouldn’t be boring in the least.”

  “It’s really a rather familiar tale by now. Like so many, we lost everything. My husband lost his life; his property was confiscated. I had two children to support, feed and educate. One does what one must in such circumstances.” It sounded noble, but the truth was that I enjoyed making deals. Learning to do business had given me an exhilarating feeling of independence.

  “And now, Our Lady of Victories, you have everything.”

  “Everything including debts.” As wife of the Liberator of Italy, my expenses had more than doubled. As wife of the Liberator of Italy, I’d been appealed to for any number of charities—charities that it was not in my nature to turn down.

  “Perhaps, Madame, I could be of help in that respect.” He paused. “I’m sorry, have I offended you?”

  “No, not in the least,” I stammered, my cheeks blazing, for I’d suddenly realized who the captain reminded me of: William, a boy I had loved in my youth.

  Late now, almost midnight, an evening of tales and tricks.

  The talk at table this evening was much concerned with the murderer, whom the innkeeper, his wife, three daughters, two sons, the innkeeper’s sister and her two sons were only too happy to describe in great detail. With each account the villain became more and more sinister. So it didn’t help when, just after ten, we w
ere suddenly apprehended by a man in a mask, who jumped into the room with a violent shout.

  Junot leapt to his feet, his hand on the pommel of his sword. We gasped, Lisette screamed, but Junot seemed unable to pull his sabre from its scabbard. He cursed crudely, so preoccupied with his dilemma that he failed to notice our laughter—for the man in the mask was none other than Captain Charles.

  Junot stood at his place, his blond hair sticking out like a haystack. “What did you do to my sword, Captain?” he demanded, cracking his knuckles.

  Captain Charles made what sounded like a frightened duck call and sat down beside me. “How tragic to be murdered on one’s birthday,” he whispered, cowering as the giant Junot approached. (We saved him!)

  July 10 (Sunday)—Lanslebourg.

  The ascent to the Pass was perilous. We followed a narrow road through thick fir woods, the glaciers glittering above us.

  I exchanged a concerned look with Joseph. “Are we actually going to go over?”

  “It will be my first time too.” He had been writing all morning—notes for his novel, he claimed. “How does this sound? ‘The pretty young woman cast a glance upon the handsome soldier, trembling as if she had seen the vault of heaven open.’“

  “I like that,” I lied.

  “I’m not sure about the word handsome,” Joseph said. “Virile might be better.”

  Captain Charles put down the book he was reading (Voltaire’s Lettres philosophiques). “Are we staying in Lanslebourg?”

  “That’s where our mules and porters will be,” Joseph said.

  “We are crossing the mountains on mules?” I asked, alarmed.

  “Perhaps you would prefer to be dragged over on a litter. My heroine is going to do it that way, packed in straw.”

  “Your heroine is going to cross the Alps?”

  “The poor girl.” Joseph looked up at a towering precipice. “She is exceedingly frightened.”

  Entering the tiny village of Lanslebourg, I felt we had come upon a new species of human. Everyone seemed deformed in appearance, enormous wens protruding from their necks. The growths are called goiters, I am told, caused by the water.

  July 11, dawn.

  We depart in a half hour. We’ve been given bear-fur blankets to wrap ourselves in, beaver-skin masks to go over our heads, taffeta eye-shades to protect our eyes from the blinding glare.

  The mountains tower above us like giants. A trembling has come over me that has little to do with fever. I’ve put my miniatures of Hortense and Eugène in the little velvet jewel bag sewn to my petticoat, for heart. Lazare’s Saint Michael medal I’ve tucked into my bodice, for courage.

  Benedictine Abbazia di Novalesa.

  We’re over. We were carried in chairs across perilous cliffs by ancient little men. It was even more terrifying than I thought it would be.

  July 12—Turin.

  We were late departing this morning due to a problem with the way our carriage had been reassembled. (It had been carried over the Pass in pieces, on the backs of mules shod with spiked shoes.) Consequently Junot forbade any stops, so by the time we rolled into the tiny but stately city of Turin, I was rather desperate for relief. My heart sank when I saw a regiment of French cavaliers led by a young man in the uniform of an aide-de-camp.

  “August!” Junot jumped out of our carriage while it was yet in motion. “What’s all this about?”

  “The General sent me to escort Madame Bonaparte to Milan.” The aide glanced at me, tipped his hat. “But first the King of Sardinia has requested an audience.”

  Junot cracked his knuckles, grinning. “The King of the Dormice is learning to bow, is he? To us Republicans? That’s a good one. Well, I wonder if I should be kind enough to grant his Highness the honour?”

  “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” the young aide stuttered. “His Highness has requested an audience with the General’s wife.”

  Lisette has mended the train on my ivory silk gown and unstitched my pearls, which we’d sewn into the hem of a petticoat for security. I’ve bathed, my hair has been dressed, I’ve been rouged and powdered. “There,” Lisette said, adjusting a pearl-studded ornament in my hair. “You look beautiful.” I studied my face in the looking glass, pulling at a curl so that it fell forward. Lisette had plucked my brows into a graceful arc. Yes, by candlelight the King of Sardinia might find me pleasing.

  If I didn’t melt first, I thought, wiping the perspiration from my brow. Already my gown was damp. I opened the double-sash doors onto the balcony overlooking the piazza. I could see the treetops of the ramparts beyond, and beyond that, in the blue horizon, the icy peaks of Mont Cenis, glittering like an enormous diamond in the sun.

  Church bells rang for afternoon vespers. I’d forgotten how lovely bells sound. I watched as a veiled woman in black made her way to church, her eyes fixed on the ground. What will they think of me, these women? Me, the Parisian merveilleuse in her revealing Parisian gown, enjoying her Parisian pleasures … her Parisian freedom, I was beginning to understand.

  Fortuné yelped at a rapping on the door. “Oh, it’s you,” Lisette said.

  “Please, Mademoiselle,” Captain Charles said, “refrain from such an unseemly expression of unrestrained joy.” He scooped up Fortuné and rubbed his face in the dog’s fur. Then, releasing the delighted dog, he informed me that we would not be going to the palace for another hour.

  “An hour!” I’d been waiting forever, it seemed. Waiting to be taken to the palace, waiting to be presented to the king of this realm. Waiting for the laudanum I took for pain to take effect. “Forgive me, Captain Charles. I’m nervous, I confess.” I’d never met a king before.

  “Why should you be nervous?” The captain brushed off a footstool, flipped up his tails and sat down. “I should think it would be the King who has reason to be uneasy. After all, your husband rather badly trounced him.”

  What was it I feared? That I might do something foolish. That I might become faint, with pain and with fever. That I might embarrass Bonaparte, the Republic. “It’s just that I never expected …”

  “La Gloire?”

  La Gloire, indeed! Fame was the last thing I’d expected from marriage to Bonaparte. Strange, intense little Napoleon, the ill-mannered Corsican—a hero now, the Liberator of Italy. The man to whom kings bowed.

  Lisette held out a glass of orange water. “I put a little ether in it, Madame. You look pale.”

  Late, I’m not sure of the time.

  I survived. It was horrible. (The King fell asleep on his throne!) Barras was right—I should have brought a hoop.

  July 13—Milan.

  Approaching Milan I could hear cheering—it sounded like a lot of people. Bonaparte’s brother Joseph stuck his head out the window, holding onto his tricorne hat. A band struck up the Marseillaise. Amour sacrée de la patrie, I hummed along, a lump rising in my throat. I wanted to look out, but I didn’t think it would be ladylike to be seen hanging out a carriage window. “We should wake Colonel Junot,” I said, waving to a gang of urchin boys who were racing beside us.

  “What?” Junot sputtered, running his fingers through his hair. “We’re in Milan? Already?”

  “Is my plume straight?” Joseph asked, adjusting the tilt of his hat. “How do I look?”

  “Fine,” I said, popping an aniseed comfit into my mouth to sweeten my breath. In fact, all of us looked as if we’d been travelling in rough circumstances for two weeks: rumpled, worn and irritable. It had been a gruelling trip.

  The crowd was chanting Evviva la Francia! Evviva la libertà! I caught sight of an immense Roman arch festooned with bright banners. “Nervous?” Captain Charles whispered. I answered by widening my eyes. Yes!

  There was a crowd—men in powdered wigs and old-fashioned court-style jackets, women (the few I could see) in wide-hooped gowns, their heads covered with black scarves. Behind the aristocrats were the peasants in rags, quite a number, a sea of faces. A column of gendarmes stood at attention, the sun glittering off
their muskets. I thought of my children, Aunt Désirée. They would have thrilled to see such a crowd.

  I recognized Bonaparte’s young brother Louis on horseback with the aides. But where was Bonaparte? My stomach felt queasy. I must not be sick, I told myself. Not now.

  We came to an abrupt halt. “We’re here,” Joseph said, with his annoying giggle.

  “Finally,” Junot said, cracking his knuckles.

  A footman in lilac livery opened the carriage door. A breeze blew dust in. I did my best to ignore it—to blink and to smile—for there, standing before me, was my husband, Napoleon Bonaparte.

  His face was bronzed by the sun. Backed by the cheering crowd, his soldiers at attention all around him, he had a regal air. “Welcome,” he said without smiling. “What took you so long?” he barked at Junot, stepping back so that the footman could let down the step.

  Evviva la libertà! a man yelled. Fortuné, in his travelling basket, whimpered to be let out.

  “Your wife has not been well,” Joseph told his brother contritely, his hands pressed between his knees. “We had to make stops.”

  Bonaparte looked at me, his big grey eyes sombre. The footman was having trouble getting the step down. I felt I was in a dream. The man standing before me seemed a stranger—this man, my husband, the Liberator of Italy.

  “May I help?” Captain Charles asked the footman, for the step mechanism had jammed again. “I have had to wrestle that latch many times over the last weeks,” he rushed on, aware of his presumption, “and consequently have come to have an intimate knowledge of its perverse ways.”

  Bonaparte stared at the captain. “You must be Charles, the aide-decamp.”

  “General Bonaparte, sir!” The captain saluted.

  Evviva la Francia! a child cried out.

  “Be quick then, Captain—I wish to embrace my wife.”