Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe

by Sandra Gulland

  I covered his hand with my own. “I believe you are right, Bonaparte. I believe your mother is a warrior.”

  June 3.

  Bonaparte’s Uncle Fesch, his brother Joseph and Joseph’s timid wife Julie have arrived, so now all the Bonapartes are here—all but Bonaparte’s brother Lucciano, that is, who I’m told refused to come to Italy because of me. (Or rather, I should say Lucien, for apparently he has changed his name as well.)

  “His wife miscarried,” Lisette told me, “and he claims it’s your fault.” Lisette has become an invaluable informant.

  “How could I have had anything to do with it?”

  “It’s because you prevented Pauline from marrying Deputy Fréron.”

  “I wasn’t the one to forbid it! And in any case, what would that have to do with Lucien’s wife’s miscarriage?”

  “Lucien Bonaparte and Deputy Fréron are friends.”

  “They are?”

  “And that’s why General Bonaparte got his brother Lucien assigned to the Army of the North—to get him away from Deputy Fréron. Or rather, you got the General to do it.”

  “Bonaparte will do something just because I ask him to?” I smiled at the thought.

  “And so Lucien Bonaparte and his wife had to move north and then she miscarried—”

  “I was so sorry to hear that.”

  “And so the mishap was your fault.”

  I frowned, puzzled.

  “Because of you, they had to move. When they moved, it happened.” Lisette shrugged. “Bonaparte logic.”

  June 4 (Pentecost Sunday).

  Our first big family dinner. I am chagrined to discover that the preferred subjects of conversation among the Bonapartes at table are infertility and money.

  “Why is there no bambino, Napoleone?” Signora Letizia tapped her knife for emphasis. She had taken the position of honour at the head of the table.

  Bonaparte ignored his mother’s pointed stare. He was sitting with his arms crossed, glowering. His brother Joseph, as the eldest, had claimed the chair to the right of their mother and it bothered my husband, I knew. (The Bonapartes take any indication of rank very seriously.)

  “As the French Ambassador to Rome, I will be making sixty thousand francs a year,” Joseph told Uncle Fesch. “As General-in-Chief of the Army of Italy, Napoleone is paid only forty thousand.” He picked up a fork, examined it with interest and passed it to his wife, who likewise examined it, turning it over to read the inscription.

  “Magnifico!” Elisa’s husband Félix said, wiping the perspiration from his brow.

  “Joseph, you can get some very good deals on sculptures in Rome,” Uncle Fesch said, leaning back in his chair.

  “Lei e troppo vecchia, Napoleone,” Signora Letizia told Bonaparte.

  I coughed on a chunk of chipolata sausage in the rice. Troppo vecchia: too old. I am too old, she’d told him—too old to have children.

  “O primavera, gioventù dell’anno. O gioventù, primavera della vita!”* Pauline sang off-tune.

  “Maybe she’s barren,” Elisa said. (Hiccup.)

  “Plombières is an excellent health spa for that problem,” Joseph’s wife hissed across the table at me. “It’s expensive, however.” The daughter of a silk merchant, Julie Bonaparte had a straightforward view of the world: profit, loss, supply, demand. Mark-up. And now and again: quality goods.

  “What does barren mean?” Girolamo had pressed the bread into dough and formed a moustache with it.

  “I’ll explain when you’re older, Girolamo,” Elisa told him.

  “I’m thirteen. And I’m changing my name to Jérôme.”

  “Liar. You’re only twelve.” Caroline grabbed a chunk of his dough moustache and threw it across the table.

  “Maman had thirteen babies, five died,” Pauline said.

  “Magnifico!” Félix said solemnly. “Salute. To Maman!” “Cin-cin!” (Hiccup.)

  “Cin-cin, cin-cin.” Uncle Fesch raised his glass, oblivious to the chunk of bread dough in his wine.

  “Salute.” I raised my glass to my new family.

  [Undated]

  Joseph, Elisa, Lucien (not here), Louis, Pauline, Caroline, Jérôme.

  Joseph, Elisa, Lucien, Louis, Pauline, Caroline, Jérôme.

  I’m getting it.

  June 8.

  “Forty thousand francs,” Bonaparte announced to Elisa. “Each.”

  Bonaparte and Joseph had just returned from a meeting with a notary in Milan to arrange dowries for Elisa and Pauline.

  “I’m getting forty thousand?” For a moment I thought Elisa might even smile.

  “Well, actually, for you, thirty-five plus three Corsican properties—Vecchia and the two vineyards.” Bonaparte shrugged. “It amounts to the same thing.”

  “Vecchia is damp.” Elisa made a face. “What did Pauline get?” “Forty thousand—in gold.” Pauline stuck out her tongue.

  5:15 P.M.

  “Napoleone!”

  Bonaparte looked up. “Was that my mother?”

  “Napoleone!”

  It sounded as if Signora Letizia was outside the door to our suite. “She wishes to speak to you, I believe.”

  Bonaparte went to the door. “Your footman is asleep,” I heard his mother say. “Is l’anziana inside?”

  L’anziana: the old woman. A surge of anger went through me. This morning, Lisette had heard my mother-in-law refer to me as la puttana, Italian for whore! I’d been doing everything in my power to gain my mother-in-law’s favour, but nothing seemed to please her. Indeed, even my acts of kindness were viewed as an affront. I made her look like a peasant, she’d told Bonaparte. When I won at reversi, I made her look stupid. (I’d intentionally only won one game out of four.) I was too trusting of my servants—I should sleep with the silver at the foot of my bed. I shouldn’t be giving the beggars so much. I laughed too much—I should be silent, like Joseph’s wife Julie. And didn’t I realize I was too old to wear flowers in my hair? In short, she was determined to detest me.

  Bonaparte stepped outside. I could hear his mother talking to him in Italian. Then he burst back into our room, his mother close behind. “Zitto! Basta!” Bonaparte stomped his feet.

  Signora Letizia crossed her hands over her chest. “Then I refuse consent. Pauline will not marry.”

  Bonaparte sat down on a chair, his legs stretched out in front of him. He hit the arm of the chair with his fist. “You’re telling me—the man who waged war on the Pope and won!—you’re telling me to arrange a Catholic ceremony for my sisters?”

  “Please, Signora Letizia, do sit down.” I pulled out a chair for her. She stood ramrod stiff. I searched for a possible compromise. “Could a religious service be performed without anyone knowing?” I asked Bonaparte.

  Bonaparte snorted. “Banns would have to be read …” He made a circling motion with his hand to mean, and on and on.

  Signora Letizia moved toward the door.

  “Un momento, Signora Letizia. Per piacere.” I turned to Bonaparte. “A dispensation could be granted from having banns read, surely.” For a price. “And the ceremony could be performed here, in the little chapel.” We could air it out, get rid of the bats. “No one need know. And the civic ceremony could come after.”

  Silence.

  “The civil ceremony must come first,” Bonaparte said finally. “Would that satisfy you, Signora Letizia?” I asked, as gently as I could. Her lower lip stuck out in a pout. “Elisa too.”

  “Elisa’s already married!” “Not by the Church.”

  I touched Bonaparte’s arm. What did it matter, one ceremony or two? “They could be at the same time.” I didn’t dare suggest that our own marriage might also be blessed.

  He grunted. I looked over at Signora Letizia. She tipped her head slightly. Did that mean yes? I wasn’t sure. “Very well then,” I said with more confidence than I felt. I opened the door for Signora Letizia. “We will work out the details this afternoon,” I whispered to her. She stomped woodenly out of the
room.

  I closed the door behind me, but was startled by an explosion of laughter.

  “Well done!” Bonaparte embraced me.

  June 14.

  “There’s a strange little man to see you.” In honour of the festivities Lisette had put on her best gown—a muslin chemise banded by violet shirring that she’d done herself.

  “The priest from the village?”

  “I … I think not.”

  A little man entered the room, his boots in his hand. His socks were dirty and full of holes. He bowed before me. “Signora Bonaparte?”

  “Father Brioschi?” It was the priest. But his clothes! “Lisette, ask him if he brought his vestments.”

  “Habetisne vestimenta?” she asked him in Latin.

  “Si.” But he just stood there.

  “I’ll get someone who speaks Italian,” Lisette said, heading out the door.

  I nudged a wooden chair toward Father Brioschi. “Peccato,” he said. What a shame? I wondered what he meant. I was saved from the discomfort of this “dialogue” by Lisette returning with Caroline Bonaparte, her plump young body squeezed into a pink taffeta gown covered with a froth of ruffles.

  “Caroline, this is Father Brioschi. Could you—?”

  “ This is the priest?”

  “Could you ask him whether he has brought his robes?”

  “Ha portato i suoi abiti?” The little man said something in Italian and shrugged. “He didn’t bring anything,” Caroline said.

  “Perhaps your uncle has something he could borrow.” Uncle Fesch travelled with an elaborate wardrobe, much of it gleaned from the coffers of vanquished Italian nobility and clergy.

  Shortly, Lisette returned, staggering under the weight of a jewel-encrusted white wool cape. I displayed it for the humble priest. “Per voi.”

  He ran his fingers over the glittering surface, whispering something reverent in Italian. “He said it’s as lumpy as a diseased sow,” Caroline said.

  The oratory smelled mouldy in spite of all the flower bouquets. Pauline emerged in a gown so revealing that Father Brioschi was rendered speechless. Victor Leclerc looked on blissfully, his hat cocked sideways, wearing a grey overcoat very much like that of Bonaparte. He could not take his eyes off the wonder of this beauty, his bride. (His bride could not take her eyes off her own reflection in the polished brass.) Then a frowning Elisa and a trembling Félix joined them at the altar—thankfully, no hiccups—and Father Brioschi was finally able to squawk out the lines.

  So, now that the ceremonies are over, it’s time to prepare for a feast, a reception and a ball. Already, the Bonapartes are bickering over the seating arrangements at table tonight. Already, I’m exhausted.

  [Undated]

  “Is something going on?” Lisette asked, biting off a thread. “Signora Letizia changed her gown.”

  “Likely it has to do with the viewing today.”

  “The viewing?” Lisette licked the thread to knot it.

  “During the Ancien Régime, the public thronged to Versailles every weekend to watch King Louis XV eat an egg. So, the Bonapartes thought that the public should be allowed to watch Bonaparte eat.”

  She looked astonished. I put up my hands as if to say, Don’t ask me, I have nothing to do with it!

  June 19.

  “They’re gone, Madame!” Lisette poured me a glass of champagne.

  “Pour a glass for yourself, Lisette,” I offered. I was in a celebratory mood. Jérôme had been sent back to school in Paris. Joseph, his wife Julie and young Caroline Bonaparte had departed for Rome. Louis had been sent to Brescia with dispatches. And now; just this morning, Signora Letizia, Elisa and her hapless husband had left for Corsica.

  Leaving only Pauline.

  I heard a door slam, a shrill voice.

  I clinked my glass against Lisette’s and smiled ruefully. Only Pauline?

  * Mal-aria: malaria, translated in Italian as “bad air,” which people believed to be the cause of the disease.

  * La beauté du diable: beauty of the devil, or bloom of youth, the sexual appeal of a girl.

  * Before the Revolution, aristocrats wore boots with high red heels.

  * Aimée Hosten, a créole friend of Josephine’s with whom she was imprisoned.

  ** A country villa north of Milan that Josephine and Bonaparte leased for the hot summer months.

  * Oh spring, youth of the year! Oh youth, springtime of life!

  In which I receive shocking news

  June 21, 1797—Mombello.

  “Is this all the mail there is from Paris?” I put down the small stack.

  “That’s what Moustache said,” Lisette said, staring out the window.

  “Nothing from my daughter?” Nothing from Eugène, either.

  “Just what’s there.” She burst out laughing. “The footman is drunk! You should see him.”

  I went through the stack for the third time, more slowly: a letter from my banker; two letters from Barras; three from Aunt Désirée; two from Thérèse; a number from people whose names I did not recognize, the usual requests for favours. And bills, of course. Quite a few.

  I tore open a notice from Madame Campan. It was only an announcement about an upcoming recital—a recital I would miss. Attached was a little note: “I thought you would like to know that ‘the general’ called on your daughter. All is well. She has become a beautiful young woman. She was brilliant in the part of Cassandra in Agamemnon.”

  Lisette was laughing again at the scene outside the window. “Madame, come here—quickly.” She turned, puzzled by my silence. “Madame, what is it? Is it bad news?”

  “Oh—no.” I smoothed out Madame Campan’s note. The perspiration from my hand had caused the ink to smear.

  Lisette stood up. “Would you like me to get you some orange water?”

  I shook my head. How could I explain? I handed her the note. I felt foolish, so suddenly overcome. Somehow, I hadn’t realized—had not been prepared.

  “That’s nice.” Lisette turned the note over in her hands, mystified.

  A beautiful young woman. “Yes,” I said, blinking back tears.

  June 22.

  “Madame Bonaparte is in the garden,” I heard our footman say. I saw a white plume bobbing above the boxwood hedge, heard a young man’s voice. A familiar voice! I picked up my skirts, hurried down the narrow path, my heart racing.

  We very nearly collided. Eugène lifted me in his arms, twirling me clumsily. “I can’t believe it, it’s actually you,” I cried out, my eyes stinging.

  He wiggled his hands behind his ears. “Yes, Maman, it’s me—truly. Just in time for your birthday.”

  I took his hands in mine, blinking and sniffing. He remembered! “You didn’t write. I wasn’t expecting you for another month.” It was such a joy to see him.

  Sheepishly, he pulled his hands away. “I know, I’m neglecting to wear my riding gloves, I’m neglecting to clip my nails.” Imitating my voice, grinning.

  “I wasn’t thinking that,” I protested, laughing. “When did you grow so tall?” Yet still, that boyish face: dimples, freckles across his nose. “How was your journey?”

  But before he could answer, he was startled by my new dog sniffing at his boots. “What’s this?” he exclaimed, jumping back.

  “His name is Pugdog.” The tiny black creature sat down by the side of the path, panting like an old dog, his lame leg sticking out to one side.

  “What does Fortuné have to say about that?” Eugène bent down to stroke Pugdog’s head.

  I made a sad face. “Fortuné was killed, Eugène.”

  “Fortuné!”

  “Not long ago. He challenged the cook’s mastiff and …” My eyes welled up remembering.

  “Fortuné took on a mastiff?” He scoffed at the thought. “Come,” I said, pulling on his arm, “Bonaparte’s in the stable.”

  My son stopped abruptly on the path. “General Bonaparte?” he stammered.

  “He’ll be so pleased that you’ve a
rrived.” I tugged at him again, but he was too big to budge. And then I understood. The stepfather he hardly knew was now a hero, hailed Liberator of Italy. The stepfather he hardly knew was now his commanding general.

  June 23.

  Immediately, Eugène’s training has begun. “A superior war is won without fighting,” I overheard Bonaparte instructing him this evening, after our meal. “One can use the forces of nature to good effect, but knowledge is the key. Battles are won here.” Bonaparte tapped his forehead. “Not here.” He put his hand on the pommel of his sword. “Am I understood?”

  “Yes, General!” Eugène said eagerly.

  Bonaparte caught my eye and grinned.

  June 29, 8:00 P.M. or so. Stiff!

  Eugène, Junot and Captain Charles spurred their horses, raced ahead. Lisette did her best to keep up (she’s bold on a horse). I was content to follow at a more leisurely pace, taking a path that edged a pond, relishing the solitude, the vistas. It was a glorious summer day.

  Before long I realized I was lost. I was beginning to worry when I saw a man on horseback on the horizon: Captain Charles. I kicked my horse into a gallop. “I was lost!” Laughing, I pulled to a halt beside him, doubling my reins to hold my horse back. The burst of freedom had excited him.

  Captain Charles struck a heroic pose. “I returned to rescue a damsel in distress.”

  “So this is East Wind,” I said, looking at the captain’s mount. There’d been talk about the horse Captain Charles had recently bought, outrageous speculation about how much he’d paid for her. (The one-hundred-louis ride, Pauline called the mare.) Well built, a glistening black, she radiated both power and beauty.

  “Like her?” He stroked his horse’s neck. The silver ornaments on her headband sparkled in the light.

  The horse was magnificent, without a doubt. And the captain cut an exceptionally handsome figure, I thought, noting the unusual stitching around the cuff of his riding jacket, the square bone buttons. “My father once had the good fortune to own such a horse,” I said. “A gambling win. Lady Luck, he called her.”

  “Mine was luck of a different sort.”