Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe

by Sandra Gulland

  July 10.

  What a night. Now all is topsy-turvy. Where do I begin? I suppose it was inevitable that the captain and I would become … well, perhaps I am being misleading.

  It began with inviting the captain to join me in sampling the first bottle of our Malmaison wine. It was, after all, an occasion. We’d learned that the investigation had been dropped. The Bodin Company was going to survive. And besides, the pheasants that a neighbour had been kind enough to give me had been splendidly prepared by my cook and required a “full-bodied” (the captain’s words) red.

  The first bottle revealed that the wine was, indeed, ready. The captain and I settled into the game room, where, after I noisily beat him at backgammon* (three times!), we propped our stockinged feet up on the big leather hassock and talked: of his family and their need; of his ambition (to own a stud farm, raise horses). I asked him once again why he had never married.

  “The woman I love is spoken for,” he confessed.

  “You won’t tell me who she is?” I asked, wondering, I confess, if he was telling the truth. Wondering if the rumours about the captain were true. I took my wineglass in my hand, holding it by the stem. I looked at the captain, held his eye as I raised my glass, emptied it. It is an old-fashioned ritual, this “taking a glass”; I doubted whether he was even familiar with it, young as he is. But gamely he followed suit, holding my eye, downing his glass. I leaned over and filled his glass again. I was conscious of the revealing cut of my gown.

  “I’ll give you a hint,” he said, standing abruptly and propping his hands on the arms of my chair. I could smell the sweet scent of pistachio on his breath. Before I could protest, his lips were upon mine, his tongue soft, seeking. I pulled away. “Why did you do that!” (Shocked, I confess, by his ardour. I’d always considered the captain to be “safe.”)

  Captain Charles fell back on his haunches. “Why is not the question a lady usually asks when she is kissed,” he said, rising to his feet, pulling at his coat to try to disguise the rather obvious fact that he was in the manly state. I looked away, a flush heating my cheeks. Perhaps I should take a lover, I thought, thinking of my husband in the arms of another. But was that lover funny little Captain Charles?

  The night was foggy. I felt my way cautiously, holding onto Captain Charles’s arm for support. We were both of us giggling like schoolchildren, stumbling in the dark, starting at the slightest sound. A snort and low rumble made me jump. “It’s just my manservant snoring,” he whispered, leading me up the narrow path to the old farmhouse. Inside, two dogs began to bark. “Quiet,” Captain Charles hissed through the open window.

  I put my hand on his shoulder to keep from swaying. Then he hiccupped and I fell against the wall, trying not to laugh. I remember thinking, I’m in a state, I’m going to regret this.

  Captain Charles opened the creaky door to his bedchamber. The room smelled of dog. He lit a lantern and stumbled about the room making it tidy, throwing a woven cloth over the bed. “There.” Then he kissed me, pulling me against him. “Please don’t change your mind,” he whispered, sensing that I might. He pulled at my bodice strings, his fingertips on my breast, his lips, his tongue. I moaned, my hands in his hair. We fell onto the bed. Kiss him, I thought—before you think better of it.

  He stood and untied his pantaloons, pulling down his breeches, his drawers. Demurely, I looked away. He stepped towards the bed, and I believe he must have lost his balance, for he began to hop about the room, his ankles tangled in his breeches, the light of the single lantern gleaming off his exposed buttocks, his rather large and bouncing manhood.

  And then, I could not help it—I began to laugh. And then the dogs began to bark. Captain Charles pulled up his breeches and ran downstairs to silence them. When he returned I was sitting cross-legged on his bed, drying my cheeks, laughing still but contained, my sides aching. He sat down beside me, confused and shy. “My valet’s still snoring,” he said.

  “Oh, Captain Charles!” I put one hand on his shoulder. I felt him begin to laugh himself. And then we were both of us convulsed.

  He kissed me tenderly and helped me to my feet. The moment of danger had passed.

  July 11.

  The captain came to my door this morning with a bouquet of wild flowers. I looked at him for what seemed like a very long time, but was probably little more than a heartbeat or two. I kissed his smooth cheek. “I’m sorry, Captain Charles, I don’t know what to say,” I said, accepting his kind offering.

  July 13.

  I was awakened by a courier cantering up the drive. Bonaparte had been injured in Egypt, I was solemnly informed, in an attack at Saint-Jean d’Acre.

  “A general’s wife becomes accustomed to false reports,” I reassured the servants, but ordered the carriage harnessed none the less.

  “I’m coming with you,” Mimi said, running back into the house for her hat.

  I stood waiting as my coachman hitched the second horse, a grey gelding. It laid back its ears at the bay, swishing its tail.

  “Josephine?” It was Captain Charles, standing by the gate. “I heard the bad news.”

  A stinging sensation came into my eyes. “No doubt it’s just another false report. I’m going into Paris to Luxembourg Palace. Director Barras will know.” I jumped at the sudden sound of muskets going off. Bastille Day tomorrow—of course.

  Mimi came running, blue hat ribbons aflutter. The carriage leaned as my coachman climbed onto the driver’s seat.

  Director Barras wasn’t receiving, his aide informed me. “His doctor has forbidden any visitors.”

  “But surely he’ll receive me.”

  “No exceptions.” He is a young man, new at the job, fearful of misstep. “Perhaps you could help me then,” I said, the tremor in my voice betraying me.

  “It’s true. They’ve been injured,” I told Mimi. I felt numb. The enormity of the news was just sinking in. “Both Bonaparte and Eugène.” “Badly?”

  “I fear so!” With a shaky breath, I told her what I’d learned. During an attack on Saint-Jean d’Acre, a shell had exploded in the midst of headquarters. A fragment struck Eugène in the head. Bonaparte, himself wounded, risked his life to come to Eugène’s aid. A sergeant had thrown himself upon Bonaparte to protect him, but was hit and died.

  Mimi put her arm around me. I began to cry.

  The horses bent their heads against the wind, heading back to Malmaison. My heart reached for Egypt, for a hot desert land. Fear inflamed my imagination.

  Captain Charles was in the game room, sitting by the fire reading a volume of Voltaire’s tragedies, his slippers on the leather hassock. He put down the book when he saw me. I took off my hat, my gloves. In a few hours Hortense would arrive. She would be buoyant, excited about the Bastille Day ceremonies tomorrow in our little village of Rueil. And then I would have to tell her—that her beloved brother had a head injury, had not woken. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” I told Captain Charles.

  “I know, your daughter will be arriving soon. I was just going back to the farmhouse in any case.” His tone tender. “The news is not …?” “No. I mean, it’s not that.”

  “What happened?” he asked. “Was General Bonaparte injured?”

  Captain Charles spoke my husband’s name with reverence. “Yes. They don’t know how badly. And Eugène, as well. He was struck unconscious from a head injury, so there’s a chance that he might be …” I thought of the village idiot.

  I felt Captain Charles’s hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

  I pulled away, out of his reach.

  “You don’t want me to comfort you?”

  I shook my head. He looked like a boy to me, not so very much older than my son. My relationship with the captain was not sinful, but it was not innocent, either. The gods were punishing me, surely! “Captain Charles, I’m … I must ask you to leave Malmaison.

  ” “Now?” He looked confused.

  “Yes please.” How could I pray for my husband and son,
with the captain by my side? “I’m sorry!” I fled the room before I could do more harm.

  July 14, Bastille Day.

  Fire rockets, trumpets, a steady drumbeat. I fastened the latch on the leaded window, drew the brocade curtains, muffling the sounds of festivity. I am keeping Hortense with me for a few days.

  July 15, early evening.

  Twice today Hortense and I walked the dusty road to Rueil to light candles in the village church. We have each of us set up a prie-dieu in our bedrooms. Mimi walks in the moonlight, chanting to the voodoo mystères. We have all returned to the gods of our youth.

  July 22—Malmaison.

  Good news—Bonaparte has recovered. But no news yet about Eugène—I’m sick with apprehension.

  Close to midnight—Paris.

  “Director Barras is expecting me,” I lied to the aide.

  The young man looked at the clock on the mantel. “I guess,” he said, still unsure.

  I followed him up the grand spiral staircase and through a series of elegant chambers to the last, the smallest and most intimate—the bedchamber of Director Barras. There I found Barras in an alarming condition—pale, too weak to stand. “I’m sorry for keeping you out the other day,” he said, waving his hand through the air, then letting it fall onto the bed sheet. “If my enemies were to find out how weak I am—” He made a pistol of his index finger and thumb and aimed it at his temple. “I’m not even letting Talleyrand in. You know he’s resigned? Everything’s falling to pieces. But at least I was able to get Fouché named Minister of Police. He should be back in Paris in a few weeks. The sooner the better. You wouldn’t believe the plots that are brewing. I should be flattered, I guess. Everyone wants to depose me. Even your charming brothers-in-law are circulating the story that I sent Bonaparte into the desert just to get rid of him, that the entire fiasco is my fault.”

  He was babbling incoherently. I put the palm of my hand on his forehead. “You have a fever. Have you seen your doctor? Have you been bled?”

  “Yes, yes, but not bled—not today, in any case. I haven’t any blood left.” He smiled weakly, his eyes fever bright. “That was good news about Bonaparte. You must be relieved.”

  “Yes! But I’ve heard nothing yet about Eugène—”

  “My aide didn’t tell you? Merde. It’s so frustrating. I told him to let you know. These young people are incompetent.”

  “Tell me what, Paul?” My heart was pounding.

  “That your son has fully recovered!”

  I put my hand to my chest, put down my head and gave thanks to my son’s guardian angels.

  July 23—still in Paris.

  Thérèse told me Captain Charles is staying in old Madame Montaniser’s suite in the Palace Égalité. I’ve sent him a message, asking him to meet me in Monceau Park tomorrow at eleven. I dare not invite him here, not with Pauline Bonaparte watching every move I make.

  July 24.

  The captain was at Monceau Park when I arrived, sitting on the shady bench by the Roman columns. He smiled at my blonde ringlets, for I was wearing one of Thérèse’s wigs.

  “Would you care to sit, Madame Bonaparte?” he asked, as if we were in a parlour. He’d spread a cloth over the bench.

  “Thank you for meeting me,” I said, closing my sun parasol. I balanced it against the bench. “I want to apologize.” I swallowed. I didn’t want to give the wrong impression. He looked so sadly hopeful. “I’m sorry, Captain Charles. I behaved poorly.”

  “I have an apology to make as well, a confession of sorts.” He glanced at me, his eyes the colour of sea-water shallows. “I courted you for what you could give me, for the advantages that you offered, the connections.”

  I looked away, out over the pond. Two ducks were swimming in the middle. On the far side a girl was pushing a baby in a pram. The captain’s words hurt. I had used him—I knew that—but even so they hurt.

  “And then I came to love you,” he said.

  Tears filled my eyes. It all seemed so pathetic, somehow, these little dramas of the heart. I thought of Bonaparte, of Eugène, their struggle for life on far desert sands. “Captain Charles, you are a dear man.” I did love him, but as a friend.

  We parted with tenderness. The captain agreed to take Pugdog back. I dare not have any reminders of my follies when Bonaparte returns, as I pray he will—soon.

  July 27—Malmaison, a glorious summer day.

  Emilie and Hortense are coming for the weekend. I’ve been all morning in the kitchen with Callyot, helping him with the baking—mille-feuilles, cherry comfits and a delectable apple flan. I miss Pugdog. I keep expecting to see him at my feet, eagerly waiting for a scrap. I am thankful he is in the captain’s care.

  July 28.

  Emilie swooned at the dinner table, slumping over into Hortense’s arms. A cup fell onto the floor. “I’m sorry,” she moaned, her teeth chattering.

  Mimi and I carried the shivering girl upstairs, laid her out on the bed.

  The chill changed abruptly to a flush of heat, and she begged me to open the windows, which I had just closed.

  I told Mimi to run for the doctor in town.

  Hortense came to the door. “Is Émilie all right?”

  “I don’t want you near this room, Hortense.” She’d been inoculated as a child, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Maman!”

  “I mean it.” I stroked a damp strand of Émilie’s hair out of her eyes. I had had a mild case of the pox as a child; it had slightly scarred me, but now I was protected.

  6:00 P.M., waiting for supper.

  The doctor clothed himself completely in a gown, gloves and mask. Emilie took fright when she saw him. I watched his face for some indication. He cleared his throat, stood back, his hands clasped behind his back. “I will return in four days, when the poison has emerged.” He paused, his hand on the door handle. “Pity,” he said.

  August 1.

  As if by magic, as if by evil, spots have appeared on Émilie’s face and neck, exactly as the doctor predicted.

  “Give me a looking glass,” Emilie demanded. I could not refuse her. “They’re little,” she said, touching them. “And pointed.” Almost with tenderness.

  The worst is yet to come.

  August 4.

  I have removed the looking glasses from Émilie’s room, but nothing can remove the nauseating smell that thickens the air, the scent of the poison that seeks to kill her.

  [Undated]

  “It’s just me, Emilie.” I put down the tray of medications. Her eyes had been sealed shut by fever blisters. Her face was unrecognizable now, a monster face.

  “Papa?” she cried out.

  Tears came to my eyes. She was dreaming of her father François de Beauharnais—her émigré father who had fled France during the Revolution, who could never return. The father she’d not seen since she was a girl of twelve. I sat down on the bed beside her. “No, Emilie, it’s me, Auntie Rose.”

  “Papa!”

  Did it matter who she thought I was? “I’m going to put a medication on your face.” I dipped a scrap of clean flannel into the glass jar. “It might sting a little,” I warned her.

  She flinched, then stilled. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she whispered.

  21 Thermidor, Luxembourg Palace

  Chère amie,

  Very well, very well. I’ll see what I can do about getting François de Beauharnais’s name erased. I wouldn’t be too hopeful, however. There is a murderous mood in the Councils these days.

  Speaking of which, opposition against your husband is growing. I’d advise you to give up the life of retirement. I can’t fight this battle alone.

  Père Barras

  August 29.

  Émilie emerged from sickbed this morning. She lifted her veil and one by one we embraced her, trying our best to conceal the distress in our eyes. Her face is a mass of scars. Thank God she is married already.

  * Backgammon dice were initially tumbled in a noisy iron container and f
or that reason (some claim) the game was considered ideal by men wishing an opportunity to converse privately with a married woman without arousing suspicion. During the noisy game for two, they would not be overheard.

  In which I am forgiven (& forgive)

  September 4, 1799.

  Émilie’s trials have awakened me from self-pity. If that frail girl can win against Death, surely I can find the strength to take on the Bonaparte clan. I’m moving back to Paris, preparing for battle.

  September 10.

  Today, calls on the Minister of War, Director Gohier (who is now President of the Council of Directors), Barras—trying to revive interest in an Egyptian rescue. It’s shocking how indifferent everyone has become to Bonaparte’s fate, to the fate of our stranded men.

  September 11.

  I am overcome with frustration. I’ve been all this week making calls, trying in vain, I fear. Opposition has strengthened against Bonaparte. They, the smug men in power, busy themselves with details, oblivious to the obvious fact that the Republic is falling.

  Bonaparte will return (I tell myself, I tell myself), that I cannot doubt. I am resolved not to give up. As a woman, my voice is weak. As a woman, my strength lies in persuading men to act. I will sleep, and then tomorrow I will rise, begin again, make my way back to the offices and homes of the deputies and Ministers and Directors, and with my woman’s heart—persistent and nagging, persuasive and flattering, cajoling and flirtatious—I will harry the men who would do my husband ill. Using all the weapons in my arsenal, I will win them to his side.

  September 22, the first day of the Republican Year VIII.

  I’ve been exhausting myself on Bonaparte’s behalf, but today was the hardest. Today I swallowed my pride and called on Joseph Bonaparte. “Madame,” he greeted me, bowing neatly from the waist. A smile flickered at the corners of his thin lips. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting. I was with my dancing master,” he said, pushing a door open to a tiny room that was more of an antechamber than a drawing room. “My porter informs me that you wish to speak to me about Napoleon,” he said, pronouncing his brother’s name in the French manner. He checked his timepiece and sat, his hands perched on the knees of his white leather breeches, smiling his unctuous little grin, “I can’t be long, I regret to say.”