December 17.
“Where did you learn to load a pistol, Madame?” Lisette looked up from mending the train on one of my gowns.
“In Paris, during the Terror. A friend of mine taught me.” A friend now dead, along with so many others. I clicked the chamber shut, slipped on the safety lock. We were travelling with only two mounted escorts; at night, in the inns, I did not feel secure.* I’d sewn my jewels into a little velvet bag, which hung under my gown.
“I love hearing stories about the Revolution, about all the fights and riots. Forgive me, Madame,” she said, seeing my stricken expression.
I handed her the pistol. “Never aim it at a person, even if it’s empty.” “I know!”
I smiled. “Have I ever told you that you remind me of my daughter?” “Many times, Madame.”
“Except, of course, that you’re a young woman now. Have you given any thought to marriage, Lisette?” She was nineteen. It was time. It was past time, frankly.
“I prefer to serve you, Madame,” she said, hiding the pistol at the bottom of her mending basket.
“You may marry and continue to serve me.”
“You would permit it, Madame?”* She picked up her mending.
“Do you think I would expect such a sacrifice from you?”
“Other ladies do.” She shrugged. “And anyway, who would want to marry me?”
“You’re lovely!” But without a dowry, true. “I will be happy to provide you with a dowry.”
“Truly?” she asked with an incredulous look. “On my honour.”
December 19—Lyons.
There was a letter awaiting me at our inn in Lyons: embossed in gold, it was from Citoyen Louis Bodin of the Bodin Company, inviting me to call.
December 20, 4:30 P.M., a gloomy day.
I was, I confess, taken aback by the Bodin estate. I had not expected it to be so imposing. A wide driveway wound through a beautifully manicured park, opening onto enchanting vistas, before coming to the château.
I was guided by a silent footman in a white cravat through a series of elegant rooms to, at the last, a game room, where Louis Bodin (round as a pumpkin and quite pink) was shooting billiards. A sleepy one-eyed maid with frizzled hair stood in attendance by the high table. In spite of the hour, all the shaded candles in the bronze chandelier had been lit.
“Welcome, Madame Bonaparte.” Louis Bodin bowed from the waist. He was welcoming, sincere in manner, yet dignified in spite of his complexion and his youth. Old money, I thought, taking in the antlers over the fireplace, the worn, elegant furnishings, the family portraits, the hound curled by the fire with its chin on its hind paws.
We talked, pleasantries at first, and then of our mutual acquaintance, the irrepressible Captain Charles, our Masonic affiliations, spiritualism (carefully avoiding a discussion of religion), the Treaty of Campo-Formio (avoiding a discussion of politics), his brother Hugo, who ran the company’s office in Paris. And then, retiring to a book-lined study where a light collation had been set (Seville oranges, little white boudins, pistachio nuts), we began at last to discuss that which had brought us together: the pursuit of wealth.
Louis Bodin explained that the Bodin Company had profited nicely from the purchase and sale of National Properties, but that due to the increasing scarcity of such “opportunities,” the company wished to expand into the more lucrative area of military supplies—specifically, the supply of mounts to the Army of Italy. “We have everything in place to make a success of such a venture,” he said. “Everything, that is, but the one essential element—approval by the Directors.” He spoke softly, with an enormous orange cat purring on his lap. “As you are no doubt aware, the competition for these contracts is keen. It is perhaps no accident that those who do succeed are the personal acquaintances of one Director in particular.” He smiled, displaying brilliantly white false teeth. “Director Barras, of course, with whom, I am given to understand, you have influence.”
I considered how I should respond to such a statement. “Director Barras is a friend of mine,” I said, a simple statement of fact.
Louis Bodin pushed the cat off his lap and sat forward, his hands on his plump knees. “Madame Bonaparte, would you be … That is, would you consider …?” He scratched the end of his nose.
I knew what he wanted to ask. I waited.
He tugged on his shirt cuffs, revealing enormous emerald links.
“Would you consider acting on behalf of the Bodin Company? That is, discussing the merits of our company with Director Barras?” He sat back, his hands on the arms of his chair. “We’d be willing to discuss a partnership arrangement.”
“That would depend—”
“On the terms, of course. I understand entirely. For that reason, I took the liberty of preparing a draft contract for you to look over.” He retrieved a portfolio from a side table and handed it to me. “Please, at least take it, Madame. You may study it at your leisure.”
I held the contract without looking through it. Once back in Paris, I would go over it with my lawyer and then I would decide. I knew that my answer—be it yes or no—would have significant consequences. If no, I would have to find a way to deal with my mounting debt. If yes, I stood to profit—enormously—but not without risk. “Could I presume, Citoyen Bodin, that my involvement would be kept confidential?”
“We fully understand, I can assure you, the sensitive nature of your position.”
“Then yes,” I said. “I am willing to consider.”
December 28—one stop past Nevers.
This afternoon, as Lisette and I were airing out the linens, we were startled by four rhythmic raps. “Isn’t that Captain Charles’s knock?” Lisette asked. “I knew it was you,” she said, on opening the door.
For there, drenched and mud-splattered, the plume of his hat broken at the stem and hanging sadly down his back like the tail of some unfortunate creature, was Captain Charles. Pugdog sat up on his cushion, his curled tail wiggling.
“Captain Charles!” I was astonished to see him. “What have you done to yourself?”
“I’ve been riding like a madman,” he said, gallantly doffing his ruined hat, “in the hope of catching up with you.”
I motioned to him to take the worn chair by the fireplace. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“I feared you might have reached Paris by now,” he said, dusting off his leather breeches before lowering himself into the armchair. He reached down to tug Pugdog’s tail, teasing. “We’ve had a few breakdowns,” I said.
“And ceremonies in every town,” Lisette said. “Madame has been making speeches.”
I opened my fan. I wanted to talk to the captain about my meeting with Citoyen Bodin—but in private. “Lisette, please bring us some midday collations. And a bottle of that good local wine.” After she had left I said, “Captain Charles, we have only a moment. I wish you to know that in Lyons I met with your associate Citoyen Louis Bodin.”
“He told me. I understand that you’ll be meeting with his brother Hugo in Paris. I must tell you, Madame, we are—”
I put up my hand. “I only told him I would consider.” In fact, I was beginning to have reservations. “I hope you understand how important it is that our discussions on this matter never be revealed.”
“Of course, I would never—” He stopped abruptly, staring over my shoulder.
I turned. Lisette was standing in the open doorway with a tray in her hand. “Ah, there you are,” I said.
New Years Day, 1798, 1:00 A.M.
A day of unexpected twists and turns. I should know better than to try my hand at matchmaking. While Lisette was attending me at toilette this morning, I made a suggestion to her. “I have observed that you and Captain Charles have a companionable relationship, Lisette. Have you considered the possibility of a match?”
“You are serious, Madame?” was her initial response. “Me and Wide-Awake?” She giggled.
“The captain may not be wealthy, Lisette, but someday soon he
will be a man of means. Do I have your permission to discuss this with him?”
We dined together, the three of us: Lisette, Captain Charles and I. The cook devised a simple but pleasing repast: a green pea soup (he keeps peas in mutton fat in the cellar over the winter), carp, pickled mushrooms and small onions, followed by cheeses and sweet chestnuts.
“Captain Charles,” Lisette announced after our dishes had been taken away, “perhaps you could take my place at the trictrac board tonight. Madame has given me the night off to go to church.” (In fact, Madame had told her that she needed to converse privately with the captain, and perhaps Lisette wouldn’t mind going out for the evening.)
Captain Charles glanced at Lisette, then at me and then back at Lisette. “You’re going to church?”
“There are many things about Lisette that are perhaps unknown to you, Captain Charles,” I said, dunking a bit of Roquefort in the mulled claret punch (of which we’d all had quite a bit). “Under a gay and buoyant demeanour she hides a serious spiritual nature.”
Captain Charles guffawed, and then ducked as Lisette hurled a hard bread roll at him. Was this a good sign? I wasn’t sure.
After Lisette departed for church (a bit inebriated, I suspect), the captain and I adjourned to the front drawing room. The room was small, but warm, and it afforded a view of the square. “You may close the door behind you, Captain,” I said, ceremoniously lighting three candles.
Captain Charles stood with his hands clasped, like a servant awaiting direction. His ensemble—wide Venetian velvet pantaloons and a silver-embroidered waistcoat—gave him the look of a royal courtier, someone of another time, out of place in our world of egalitarian linen and rough wool. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” I poured us each from an opened bottle of still champagne. I handed the one good glass to the captain. “To the New Year.”
He sat down on a wooden side chair. I sat on the sofa opposite him. (The down cushions smelled of ducks.) Why this lack of ease? We seemed like strangers to one another. “There are only two more years until the year 1800,” I said, offering the captain from a plate of sausage puff pastries and then helping myself to one. “Imagine, a new century.”
“Already, the fortune-tellers are making predictions. Have you read them?”
Ah, the predictions—how good of him to bring them up. “I always read the predictions, Captain,” I said. “And I believe them, I confess.”
Captain Charles leaned forward. “The indications are that it will be an excellent year for commercial endeavours.”
“Excellent.” I opened my ivory fan, then snapped it shut. The subject of marriage is not an easy one to broach. I had hoped that Captain Charles’s customary levity would make it easier. I cleared my throat; Captain Charles did likewise. We smiled at this coincidence. “There is something I have been wanting to ask you, Captain,” I said finally.
“Concerning the Bodin Company, Madame?”
“No—something to do with matters of the heart. Have you given any thought to taking a wife?”
A laugh escaped him, rather like a snort. I was not sure how to interpret his response. It seemed somehow ironic. Was it possible that my suspicions regarding the captain were true? “I amuse you?” I asked.
“On the contrary, Madame, you enchant me.”
He was being silly. “Captain Charles, no jests. I beg you.” I put up my hands, palms towards him. “Seriously, as a friend, as someone who is concerned with your welfare, I recommend that you marry, raise a family. You are young, but before you know it, your youth will have slipped away. Children give one immeasurable joy.”
Captain Charles pushed the toe of his boot against the frayed carpet fringe. “Perhaps you have someone in mind, Madame?”
I nodded, smiling with my eyes. “Guess.”
He pursed his lips, a perfect rosette. “Your daughter?”
I laughed, taken aback, I confess. Although I found Captain Charles a charming companion, I did not consider him a suitable match for Hortense. “Forgive me,” I said, whisking a crumb off my lap—for his mortified expression made it clear that I had offended him. “It is just that she is so young, Captain, only fourteen. I have yet to consider a husband for her.”
“You need not dissemble, mia belissima regina. I know my standing in this world.”
I disregarded his statement; clearly, he’d had too much to drink. “I will tell you who I think would make a perfect wife for you,” I persevered, tapping my fan against my palm. The bells began to ring, welcoming in the Christian New Year. “You.”
I sat back. “Captain Charles, do be serious!” Many bells were ringing now, a joyful tumult. Where had they come from, these bells?
“The clown, Madame, is always serious.” Pulling down on his feathered jockey hat, he made a sloppy bow, kissed me lightly and staggered out the door.
I watched him from the window, weaving on the cobblestones. His hat fell off; he paid it no heed.
Late afternoon.
Lisette looked relieved when I told her that Captain Charles had been disinclined to discuss the subject of matrimony. And much to my relief, the captain doesn’t remember a thing. My new year’s vow: to give up matchmaking. Tomorrow, Paris!
January 2—Paris!
“What took you so long!” Bonaparte crumpled a piece of paper and threw it against the wall. His hair hung down over his ears, giving the impression of a Florida Indian. I was alarmed by his sallow skin, his thin, almost emaciated frame. His health had clearly deteriorated in the six weeks since I’d last seen him. His temper, as well.
His rage had to do with money. The designer I’d hired to make over the house had demanded payment for the renovations—one hundred thousand francs! I sat down, stunned. That was an incomprehensible sum. “One hundred and thirty, in fact,” Bonaparte ranted, kicking the flaming logs, making sparks fly. “The house itself is only worth forty, and you don’t even own it. The frieze in the dining room isn’t even painted by David. It’s by one of his students.”
There was a frieze in the dining room? “Most of the value is in furnishings, Bonaparte,” I said in my defence.
“Most? Even seventy thousand in furniture would be outrageous—I don’t care who made it, Jacob Brothers or not! There’s no way I’m going to pay for half of this. I’ll contribute thirty thousand, but not a sou more.”
Leaving me with a bill for one hundred thousand? “No doubt there has been a mistake. I’ll talk to Vautier.” The renovations were the last thing I wanted to deal with, however, after an absence of almost two years. First I had to see Hortense. And then, of course, Aunt Désirée, the dear old Marquis. And then Thérèse—had she had her baby yet? And how was Père Barras? And the Glories, of course! Not to mention the business I needed to attend to, my lawyer to see.
“How can there be a mistake? Vautier produced your letters as evidence. You gave him total licence! One never gives total licence.”
I removed my gloves, taking in the changes: the Pompeian frescoes, military trophies, chairs upholstered in striped fabric. The renovation was simple, yet elegant. I ran my hand over the surface of the new mahogany desk. The grain seemed to shimmer under my fingertips. I felt I could see deep into the heart of the wood. “Does none of it please you, Bonaparte?”
“Come see our beds,” he said with a little grin.
Our bedroom had been designed to look like a military tent. “Watch.” Bonaparte released a latch and our two beds sprang together with a noisy clatter.
“Clever!” I sat down on one of the stools, covered with chamois leather to resemble a drum. The beds were draped with a canopy of blue and white stripes, the bedposts forged from cannon.
Bonaparte tugged at my arm.
“Not now, Bonaparte,” I pleaded, but smiling. “It’s not even noon yet, and I need a bath.”
“We’ll bathe together,” he said, pulling at my sleeve, “after.”
Late now, almost 11:00 P.M., a very long day
I’d bathed and was changi
ng into an afternoon gown when I heard horses in the courtyard. A slender young woman in a white riding frock was stepping down from a barouche. A mass of golden curls fell to her shoulders. I put my hands over my mouth. Mon Dieu. Hortense?
“Maman!” Hortense cried out when she saw me, all the airs of une élégante of Paris giving way to that of a girl. Her eyes were an extraordinary blue; how was it possible that that surprised me? She slipped off her cloak, chattering. “Where’s Eugène? I saw his horse saddled by the stable. That’s Louis Bonaparte’s horse? The General’s brother is staying here? But why isn’t Eugène back yet? I’ve been telling all my friends he would be returning with you.”
My daughter’s long fingernails were painted red. And breasts—she had breasts! “Eugène is in Rome,” I stuttered. “He’ll be—”
“What took you so long? Where were you? Every day there have been notices in the journals that you’d arrived. Maman, what’s wrong? Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing,” I croaked, taking her in, this lovely young woman.
Aunt Désirée arrived shortly after, barking instructions at two valets who carried the old Marquis into the house by the garden entrance. They deposited him in the down armchair, where he looked about with a dazed expression. I asked my manservant to put on a fire and Lisette to set out the gifts I had brought back from Italy with me.
“Modern,” Aunt Désirée said, looking around the drawing room, appraising the changes.
“Grecian is modern?” I stooped to kiss the old Marquis. His beard smelled of brilliantine.
“Bonne à Pare Té!” he said with vigour.
Hortense laughed. Aunt Désirée motioned to her to sit straight, keep her knees together, fold her hands in her lap, and not to laugh so loudly—all in one silent gesture known to all women and girls. Hortense made a prim face, but nevertheless did as instructed. Aunt Désirée gave me a triumphant look. “Hortense, that shawl looks lovely—did your mother bring it back from Italy for you? Where is our famous General, Rose? I bought a flower vase for three francs just because it had his image on it.”
Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe Page 15
