Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe

by Sandra Gulland

  “Forgive me, ladies! We are enjoying an evening of light opera, are we not? Certainly not tragedy, of which the much-applauded General does not approve.” In fact, Bonaparte enjoyed tragedy, loved classical theatre, but I didn’t think it wise to correct him. “Of course not,” he ranted on. “The General understands Parisians. They want only victory, glory, a glittery show. But caution, Citoyennes—for they weary quickly. Indeed, one must ask, does such a fickle people even deserve democracy? Perhaps there is something to be said for the stability of a monarchy. The French are a feminine people—they long to be dominated.” He smiled. “What a shocking thing to say! How fortunate to be among friends.”

  November 3.

  Shortly after eleven I heard the sound of a horse galloping down the lane. Only Bonaparte galloped into the courtyard—he knew no other pace. Then I heard the front door slam.

  “How did it go?” I’d been waiting for him to return.

  “How did what go?” Tossing his hat onto a table.

  “Your meeting with Barras,” I said, taking up his hat, wiping the rain from the brim.

  Bonaparte threw himself into a chair by the fire. “Well, you were right about one thing—Barras agrees that a change is in order.” He jumped back to his feet. “Indeed, he even told me the Republic is in need of someone to take the helm, a man with vision, a military man who enjoys the confidence of the people.”

  Yes, I nodded, almost fearfully. It was obvious to everyone who that man was.

  “He even informed me that he has the man picked out.” Bonaparte paused for effect. “General Hedouville.”

  Hedouville? Who was Hedouville?

  Bonaparte hit the wall with this fist. “Exactly! Hedouville is a nobody. Barras insults me by making such a suggestion. Wasting—my—time.” He enunciated each word with spite.

  I took a breath, not moving. “No doubt there has been a misunderstanding.”

  Bonaparte stomped out of the room, knocking an ancient Egyptian vase to the floor as he went by.

  November 4.

  “I’ve decided to go with Director Sieyès,” Bonaparte informed me at breakfast.

  “But—” Sieyès and Bonaparte detested each other!

  “The romance of the Revolution is finished; it’s time to begin its history.” He downed his scalding coffee in one gulp and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Can I count on you?”

  “I don’t understand.” Count on me for what?

  “To help out, talk to people, be persuasive. You’re good at that. But you’ll have to keep quiet about the plan. No talking to your Glories.” “There’s a plan?”

  “Director Sieyès has had one worked out for some time, as it turns out.”

  Ah, I thought, so the rumours are true—Director Sieyès has been plotting something.

  “First, the five Directors resign. Second, Directors Sieyès and Ducos and I form a new executive council. Third, we craft a workable constitution. Sieyès assumes it will be the one he has been working on, of course.” He scoffed. “But everything within the law.”

  It sounded so logical—so easy. “And Barras will agree to resign?”

  Bonaparte poured himself a second cup of coffee, scooped in four heaping spoons of sugar. “He’ll have no choice.”

  I paused before asking, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he’ll be powerless, we’ll be stronger.”

  Suddenly I understood what Bonaparte was saying. He was going to overthrow Barras—by force, if need be. “But Bonaparte, Barras has helped you so much. If it weren’t for him …” I started to say, If it weren’t for Barras, we wouldn’t be married. If it weren’t for Barras, Bonaparte would be nobody. But these were not words one could say to a man like Bonaparte. “Why can’t Barras be included? You said yourself he believes something needs to be done.”

  “He’d want to be in charge. The people are not going to support a new effort if they see him at the helm. They’ll think it’s just another money grab on his part, just another way to milk the Treasury for his personal gain.”

  “There’s no evidence to support those rumours! All we really know for certain is that Barras has been your most loyal supporter.”

  “That’s not a factor any longer. There are more important issues.”

  “This is heartless.” I threw down my embroidery.

  “You’d likely not say that if you knew that your so-called friend is conspiring with the Royalists.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say!”

  “Correction—it’s a terrible thing to do.”

  I stared out the window, unseeing. War times are not moral times, Barras had once told me. But there were things I preferred not to know.

  “The Royalists have long been seeking someone inside the French Republic to help put a king back on the throne—someone high up, someone powerful and someone who could be swayed by their gold. Your friend—”

  “Our friend, your friend, Bonaparte. This is just conjecture. You don’t have proof.”

  “Look at Grosbois, look at the way Barras throws money around. Do you think one can live like that on a director’s salary, on gambling wins?”

  I swallowed with difficulty. “Just because Barras is wealthy doesn’t mean he’s in league with the Royalists. Barras voted for the death of the King. He believes in the Republic.”

  “Barras believes in himself! Open your eyes, Josephine—he has been bought. This is no longer a personal matter. Too much is at stake. Do you think I make these decisions lightly?” He paused before saying, almost sadly, “There is evidence. Fouché has being going through General Hoche’s papers.”

  I felt a strange sense of detachment, as if this were a story I had already heard. Barras was in league with the Royalists. If this were true, as I feared it must be, then what of the rest? What of all the other rumours—that Lazare had found out, that Barras had had him poisoned?

  I felt weakened, sick at heart. I thought of the man I knew—big-hearted, generous Père Barras, a dedicated Republican, an ardent anti-Royalist. I thought of the tears I’d seen in his eyes when he spoke of Lazare. This was the Barras I knew in my heart. The other Barras seemed a fiction, a character in a play. “Are you sure, Bonaparte?”

  Bonaparte put his arm around me. He saw that I was shaken, heard the dismay in my voice. “Josephine, my angel, we must be brave. We can’t afford to fool ourselves. The Republic—and all that it stands for—will either survive, or it will perish.”

  “I know, Bonaparte, but—”

  “Please, listen to me.” He held my face in his hands. His skin felt soft and cool, soothing against my hot cheeks. “If you’re with me, you can’t be with Barras. It’s as simple as that.”

  “You would ask me to betray a friend?”

  “I am asking you to help save the Republic,” Bonaparte told me gently, wiping my cheek with his thumb.

  I laid my head on his shoulder. “What do you want me to do?” If I could not trust my heart, what could I trust?

  “Just be your charming self. Don’t let on. Barras must suspect nothing.”

  I nodded slowly. Very well then. “Can you promise me one thing?”

  He kissed me lightly.

  “Barras must be spared.”

  “I told you, this will be bloodless.”

  “There are other ways to ruin a man.”

  In which we have “a day” (or two)

  November 4, 1799, evening, around 9:00 P.M.

  Barras greeted us with open arms. “I’ve opened a bottle of excellent Clos-Vougeot. Did I tell you about the string quartet I’ve hired for later? I’m determined to conquer that German dance—what is it called? Valse? Un. Deux. Trois. Un. Deux. Trois. You see, it is not in the least bit complex, just a triangle, but somehow, by this means, one must move about the room. There’s a trick to it. Un. Deux. Trois. Un. Deux. Trois. Ta la! You see, I’ve got it.” He danced ahead of us into a salon where a small table had been laid with three covers, the fine crystal and golden f
latware glittering in the candlelight. Gold-plated serving dishes had been placed on a side table. The air was sweet with the smell of juniper. “General? You will have a glass?” Barras pulled hard on the cork, sniffed it.

  “I have my own, thank you,” Bonaparte said, signalling to Roustam to step forward.

  Barras looked with astonishment at the bottle of wine Roustam was uncorking. “A health measure,” I rushed to explain.

  “You have not been well, General? You must talk to my doctor. He’ll be joining us later. He is oh-so-very wicked with the enemas.” A peal of laughter. “Pardi! But I am full of animal spirits tonight. I must be getting sick. It is always the first sign.”

  The footman pulled out a seat for me. He started to pull one out for Bonaparte, but Roustam stepped in. A maid removed three golden lids: thrushes in a juniper dressing, rice with saffron, fat white asparagus with purple tips.

  Two maids rolled in a trolley. Barras lifted a silver cover. “Ah, a most excellent tunny, esteemed for its beneficial effects on a troubled digestion, you’ll be happy to know, General. You’ll not be offended if I do the honours?” He scooped asparagus onto my plate. “We are, after all, like family here. I’ve been in the kitchen all morning, coaching my new chef on how a court bouillon is to be properly rendered—how it must be coaxed into being,” he said, dipping and licking his index finger. “Grand Dieu, I believe he has a knack for it. General? May I have the honour of … No?”

  Roustam had placed a hard-boiled egg on Bonaparte’s plate. It rolled around the brim. Bonaparte cracked it against the edge of the table.

  My hand jerked, nearly toppling my glass. What could I say? “Barras, have you seen that play that just opened at that little theatre on Rue du Bac? Les Femmes Politiques, I think it is.”

  “The play Thérèse is so upset about?* No, I’ve been too damn busy with Grosbois renovations. This new roof—what a mess. I haven’t been out at all. Fortunately, watching Director Sieyès taking horseback riding lessons from my window here is entertainment enough. Every morning he manages to fall off. It’s getting so a crowd turns out just to watch. I’m starting to think we could charge for admission. The last time I was so amused was watching Robespierre learn to ride.”

  “Sieyès is a little old to be taking up horseback riding, isn’t he?” I could feel the heat in my cheeks. I knew that Director Sieyès was intent on riding beside Bonaparte—when the time came.

  “What is it they teach in military school, General: when a politician begins to ride, prepare for battle?”

  Bonaparte wiped the egg from his lips with his lap cloth and handed his plate and glass to Roustam. “No. When a politician betrays the people”—Bonaparte pushed back his chair—”that’s when the battle begins.”

  [Undated]

  “Just so you know, we’re saying Director Barras is aware of the plan, that he’s with us.” Bonaparte tapped a stack of correspondence with his silver-tipped riding whip.

  I nodded yes. Yet another deceit.

  I have become a person I do not care for.

  November 5.

  President Director Gohier arrived punctually at four, as is his custom, carrying a bouquet of roses. “For the loveliest lady in Paris,” he said, giving me a rather wet kiss.

  Shortly after, Minister of Police Fouché arrived, skulking into the room in a dishevelled state, smelling of garlic and fish. I was on the settee by the fire, sitting with Director Gohier, enjoying a conversation about theatre. I moved over to make room for Fouché.

  “What’s the news, Citoyen Minister of Police?” Director Gohier asked.

  “There is no news,” Fouché said, feigning weariness. “But surely there is something,” Gohier said. “Only rumours,” Fouché said, catching my eye. “About?”

  “Just the usual about a conspiracy.”

  “Conspiracy,” I exclaimed, shocked that he would so boldly speak the truth.

  Fortunately, my shock gave the impression of ignorance, for Director Gohier, spilling his tea, echoed, “Conspiracy?”

  “Yes, conspiracy,” Fouché repeated without a trace of emotion. “But trust me, Citoyen Director, I know what’s going on. If there were truth to the rumour, heads would be rolling by now, don’t you think?” He laughed.

  “Citoyen Fouché, how can you laugh about such a thing?” I pressed my hands to my heart.

  Director Gohier put his arm about my shoulder. “Don’t worry, my dear,” he said to reassure me. “The Minister of Police knows what he is talking about.”

  All the while Bonaparte was leaning against the fireplace mantel watching—watching and smiling.

  November 6, just after 1:00 P.M.

  Bonaparte has just left for the banquet in honour of the Republic’s military victories. I could tell by his embrace, his damp hand, that he was uneasy—as well as by the basket of provisions Roustam was carrying: a bottle of Malmaison wine, three hard-boiled eggs.

  9:20 P.M.

  Bonaparte didn’t return home until almost eight. I took his wet hat. “Where have you been?” I demanded, keeping my voice low so that our guests would not overhear. I’d been in knots worrying.

  He glanced over my shoulder into the drawing room, which was crowded with savants, politicians, military men, all talking politics, tense and conspiratorial. “I went to Lucien’s after the banquet to make the final arrangements.”

  The final arrangements? “How was the banquet?”

  “A dismal affair.” I helped him off with his greatcoat. One of the boils on his neck was inflamed again. “The place was freezing,” he said.

  The playwright Arnault came up behind me. “General,” he said under his breath, “Talleyrand sent me to find out what time tomorrow we—”

  “Day after tomorrow,” Bonaparte told him.

  “But General, a day’s delay, is that not …?”

  Dangerous, he started to say.

  Our guests fell silent as Bonaparte entered the drawing room. Throughout the evening they watched to see who he invited back into his study—for whom the door was closed and for whom it was kept open. All the while I entertained gaily as if nothing was going on, as if I knew nothing.

  Which may be the case, in fact. I calm and I charm, I amuse and I placate, but increasingly I have the sense that a great deal more is at stake than I realize, that the game has changed and I do not know the rules.

  November 7, morning.

  I woke to the sound of Bonaparte’s tuneless singing. I remembered that it was Septidi, the second Septidi in Brumaire, and that the Glories would be gathering at Thérèse’s for a coffee party. I decided to send word I wouldn’t be able to come. Ill, I would be.

  III I am, in fact—in spirit, in soul. I can’t face Thérèse right now, can’t bring myself to lie to her, to say, No, nothing’s going on, there is no plan, no conspiracy to overthrow Père Barras.

  Bonaparte just stuck his head in the room and told me to send Hortense and Caroline back to school in Saint-Germain—today. I protested that they had been looking forward to a ball that was going to be held tomorrow. Couldn’t they stay one day longer? His answer worries me: “I don’t want them anywhere near Paris,” he said.

  There is more to this than what I’ve been told, I fear.

  Darling,

  The Glories were sad to hear that you’re not well. Perhaps you are suffering from the same ague Barras seems to he afflicted with right now—of all times, the poor dear, what with his cousin from Avignon visiting with all five of her girls. The palace is swarming with little Barrases—it’s like a girls’ school there!

  Get well. Soon it will he the turn of the century. Imagine! We are all of us already planning our gowns.

  Your loving and dearest friend, Thérèse Note—Good news. Barras promised to get that odious play closed down.

  November 8.

  Bonaparte returned from the palace shortly before noon. “You saw Barras? How is he?” I asked anxiously.

  “He doesn’t suspect a thing. I told him I’d lik
e to see him tonight, at eleven, so that we might talk privately.”

  “And will you?”

  “Of course not.”

  Lie, detract, deflect. So this is what it is like to be a conspirator, I thought—to put on the face of a friend, to plan that friend’s undoing. I can only pray that it will be over soon, and that after I will become, once again, a person who speaks truly.

  I heard a curse, the sound of a horse prancing. I opened the sash windows, leaned out. The coachman, Antoine, had an enormous black horse by the reins and was trying with difficulty to control it. “Whose horse is that?” It wasn’t Pegasus, Eugène’s new mount. This horse was bigger—and fiery.

  Bonaparte joined me at the window. “Admiral Bruix has lent me his stallion for tomorrow.”

  “You’re going to ride that horse?”

  Bonaparte looked at me, amused. “You don’t believe I can?”

  [Undated]

  Bonaparte is happy, industrious, cheerful even: writing dispatches, speeches, preparing for what’s to come—preparing for a victory. “How does this sound?” he asked, reading out loud: “Nothing in history resembles the end of the eighteenth century, and nothing at the end of the eighteenth century resembles the present moment.”

  “Perfect,” I said, frightened.

  7:20 P.M.

  “This jacket suits you,” I told Eugène, picking a hair off his lapel. It is a becoming dark green, cut away in the front, tails in the back, and a high turned-over collar.

  “It’s too new, too pressed,” he complained.

  “You’re going out?”

  “I’m going to the Recamier ball at Bagatelle—I told you last week. Don’t you remember?”

  I groaned. Everything was happening so fast, it was impossible to keep track. Every evening there had been meetings late into the night.

  “Why aren’t the girls here? I thought they were all excited about it.

  And oh, about tomorrow,” he said, heading out the door, “I think I’ll invite that juggler I told you about—the one I met at the Palais Égalité. And maybe his friend the mime artist.”