Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe

by Sandra Gulland

  Mon Dieu—his breakfast party. I’d forgotten. “Eugène, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to cancel it,” I called after him.

  “Maman!” He gave an exasperated groan.

  “It’s just that we have so many coming as it is.”

  “So I gather! What’s going on?”

  November 9.

  I woke to the smell of smoke. I pushed back the bed curtain, alarmed. The fire in the fireplace illuminated Mimi’s face, her white morning gown. “Oh, it’s you,” I said, whispering so as not to waken Bonaparte. “What time is it?”

  “Just past six.” She pushed open the heavy drapes.

  “Six!” I swung my feet onto the cold floor. Thinking: day one, day two, and then it will be over. That is the plan. Thinking: today is day one. Today it begins.

  Mimi draped a cashmere shawl over my nightclothes. “There’s frost on the ground,” she said, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “And men in the courtyard.”

  “Already?” I pushed my feet into a pair of fur slippers and shuffled to the alcove window.

  “I invited them in, but they said they preferred to stay outside.” She rolled her eyes. “Soldiers.”

  “What time is it? Is Fauvelet here yet?” Bonaparte asked, abruptly opening his eyes. “Where’s Roustam? Roustam!”

  Roustam, wearing a thick turban of wool for warmth, looked in at the door. “Master?” He bowed, putting down the tray of shaving implements on the dressing table, the crockery bowl of steaming hot water.

  “Get Gontier up here, and the groom,” Bonaparte commanded Mimi. He sat down in the hard leather chair, pulling a fur throw from the bed and draping it over his knees. He tilted back his head, exposing his throat. “And Antoine!” he ordered, causing Roustam’s brush of thick lather to catch his ear.

  I went downstairs to the kitchen to see how the cook was managing. Breakfast invitations had been sent out to over one hundred military officers. Did we even have china for that many?

  Callyot, unfortunately, was about to have an apoplectic fit. The yeast dough for the bread had not risen due to the unseasonable frost. We contrived to cover the pans with a comforter, lining them up near the ovens. Then Eugène came tumbling down the narrow stairs, groggy from not enough sleep, and starving, he said. “Why is everyone in uniform? What’s going on?”

  “I suggest you get in uniform as well,” I said, handing him a roll which he consumed in one gulp. “And best saddle your horse.”

  It was still dark when Talleyrand arrived. “I didn’t think you rose before noon,” I said, serving him the beer soup I knew he favoured.

  “I haven’t been to bed yet.”

  “You won’t have a coffee?” The smell of beans roasting filled the house.

  “My brain does not require nourishment,” he said without expression.

  “You are so calm, Citoyen.” Unlike the rest of us!

  “Perhaps you forget, Madame, I am always the victor.”

  Immediately he was joined by Bonaparte and the two moved slowly toward the door, Talleyrand’s big boot making a scraping noise on the parquet floor. “Be respectful,” I overheard Bonaparte telling him, “but make sure he understands that he has no choice.”

  “Is Talleyrand going to see Director Barras?” I asked Fauvelet, my voice low so that the men in the drawing room would not overhear. “To persuade him to resign?”

  “With the help of two million francs,” Fauvelet said, biting the nail of his thumb.

  Two million? I mouthed the words, made frog eyes. “That is persuasive.”

  “Yes, if Talleyrand doesn’t pocket it for himself.”*

  I went the rounds of the drawing room, making light conversation, but it wasn’t easy: everyone was tense, sipping champagne, all the while watching the door to the study. I heard the sound of trumpets.

  Two messengers of state stooped as they came through the door, careful not to crush the plumes on their hats. “An official message for General Bonaparte,” one announced, sniffing from the cold. “From the Council of the Ancients.”** Pox scars, enflamed by the chill air, gave him a feverish look.

  Everyone in the drawing room parted as I led the two men through to the study. “Get Eugène,” Bonaparte’s secretary told me. “The General wants him.”

  Eugène leapt to his feet when I summoned him. Flustered, he disappeared into Bonaparte’s study, then reappeared shortly after smelling of cigar smoke. “I have to go,” he told me, strapping on his father’s sword.

  “You’ll be needing this,” I said, handing him his hat. “What’s going on?” Not that a mere mother had any right to know.

  “I have to make an announcement—to the Council of the Ancients! I’m to tell them the General is coming.” He made a nervous face, chewing at his nails in mock terror.

  I smiled at his charming antics. He is eighteen now, but often acts like a boy. “You’ll be fine,” I assured him. Although, in fact, when it came to theatre Eugène had always been one to forget his lines.

  The courtyard was crowded with men in uniform, all waiting—for what, they didn’t know. They watched with interest as Eugène mounted his horse. He tipped his hat—proud, I knew, to be riding such a fine creature in the uniform of an aide-de-camp—and cantered down the laneway. I went back into the house where I discovered Bonaparte in the dining room, talking to Fauvelet. He gave me a quick kiss. “It’s time.”

  The men in the courtyard cheered when Bonaparte emerged. The king of mighty deeds, I thought, recalling a line from Ossian. He addressed them from the top step as if he were on campaign. Suddenly—magically!—the sun came out and there was a clashing of swords and a jubilant tossing of hats. The sunbeam pours its bright stream before him, a thousand spears glitter around.

  Antoine, the coachman, emerged from the stable with the black stallion, the horse rearing in spite of the stud chain over its nose. Someone held the stirrup as Bonaparte mounted. The stallion shied, very nearly unhorsing Bonaparte. He yelled to his men, pulling back on the reins. The horse reared, then bolted down the narrow lane, shaking its head and bucking, the men in pursuit.

  Suddenly it seemed so quiet. I turned, surprised to discover Fauvelet behind me. “You’re not going with him?” Except for the servants, the house was empty now. Empty for the first time in what seemed like months.

  “Madame,” he said, observing the distress in my eyes, “be assured that the plan is a good one—”

  “I know, Fauvelet.” Today the Directors would resign. Tomorrow a temporary committee would be formed to craft a workable constitution. All within the law—a bloodless coup. “I guess I’m not very good at this, at being a conspirator.”

  “Madame, I beg to differ. I believe you are very good at it.”

  A day in history does not have any special weather; there is nothing unusual about the way it unfolds. The cow must be milked, linens freshened, bread baked. But for the skipping of my heart, my silent prayers, but for my anxious watching at the window, listening for the sound of horses in the laneway—a day like any other.

  It was shortly after noon when Bonaparte’s courier Moustache came trotting into the courtyard with the news that General Moreau had agreed to take command of the troops guarding the Luxembourg Palace.

  Fauvelet jumped up. “That’s the key!” He confessed that he had, in truth, been a little bit worried—more worried than he’d let on, in any case.

  “But why must the palace be kept under guard?” I asked.

  “Directors Gohier and Moulins are being kept prisoner there,” Moustache said.

  Prisoner! “What about Director Barras?”

  “He’s gone to his country estate, under escort.”

  Under guard, he meant. Mon Dieu.

  A night of betrayal, a night of prayer. Mimi helped me into bed, gave me hysteric water and laudanum, piled me high with comforters. Yet even so, warmth eluded me. I waited, clutching Lazare’s Saint Michael’s medal, startling at the slightest movement, the shadows. Full of fear
, remorse. Waiting for my husband, my son. Waiting. And praying. La liberté ou la mort.

  It was very nearly midnight when I heard the sound of horses in the courtyard. I met Bonaparte and Eugène at the door. “Thank God, you’re safe!” I cried out, embracing them both. I was so relieved to see them. My son yawned, indifferent to danger, and stumbled up the stairs to bed.

  “You were worried? Why?” Bonaparte asked, unbuckling his sword. “Everything’s going smoothly, according to plan.”

  “I’m … frightened.” Terrified. “I’m worried that Barras might try something, send some of his ruffians to—* Is there enough of a guard outside, do you think?” We seemed so exposed.

  “There’s no need. Roustam will sleep outside our door,” Bonaparte said, but he nevertheless pulled out a brace of pistols, cocking them to see if they were loaded. He came around to my side of the bed and put one on the table beside me. “Just in case,” he said, tugging my ear.

  Bonaparte, accustomed to battle and battle nerves, made feverish love and then immediately fell asleep. I lay beside him for what seemed like hours, my heart’s blood pounding: la liberté ou la mort, ou la mort, ou la mort.

  November 10.

  Day two. I woke with a start, pulled the bell rope. What time was it? I could hear commotion out in the courtyard. Bonaparte wasn’t in bed—why hadn’t he wakened me?

  “They’re almost ready to leave,” Mimi said, rushing in with a lantern. She went to the window, pulled back the curtain. “The General is in the courtyard now.”

  By the light of the flambeau, I could see Bonaparte adjusting his saddle. “Quick, tell him I must see him.”

  “Now?”

  I grabbed her elbow. “Insist on it.”

  Bonaparte ran up the stairs, his spurs jingling. I pulled him to me, kissed him. “For luck,” I said, my eyes filling. He pressed his forehead against mine, his eyes closed as if in prayer. Everything depended on this day.

  Just after 6:00 P.M.

  Still no word. It’s so quiet I can hear the candles dripping.

  8:15 P.M.

  A crowd has gathered at the gate. I sent my manservant to inquire. He returned with a hangdog look. “They think there’s been an attempt on the General’s life, Madame.”

  “An attempt?” I repeated, imagining the words wound, injure, cripple, maim. Imagining the word killed.

  Shortly after the clocks struck ten—in unison, a rare and almost mystical occurrence—a carriage pulled into the courtyard. I recognized the white horses, the Leclercs’ ornate carriage. Pauline fell into her valet’s arms and was carried to the house, followed by a woman in black, Signora Letizia! I rushed to the door, opened it myself. Pauline was sobbing hysterically. “What happened?” I cried out, panic rising in me.

  “It’s just a mother fit,” Signora Letizia said, stomping into the house.

  I asked Mimi to fetch hysteric water and whisky.

  “Brandy,” Pauline said between gasps for air.

  Signora Letizia took a chair by the roaring fire. “We went to the theatre,” she said, looking about the room with obvious disapproval. She thinks my taste too expensive, I’ve been told, but at the same time lacking sufficient display. “We were in act two—”

  “What does it matter which act?” Pauline cried out, pulling at her handkerchief. “The comedian Eleviou stopped the performance—” She was interrupted by Mimi’s entrance into the room with a tray of glasses and bottles containing hysteric water, laudanum, salts and brandy. Pauline pushed the hysteric water aside and poured herself a brandy, dousing it liberally with laudanum and downing it in one choking gulp. “He stopped the performance to announce that the traitors of the Republic—”

  “She made a scene.” Signora Letizia imitated the sound of loud weeping.

  “—had tried to assassinate my brother.”

  I gripped the arms of my chair. Assassinated? “Bonaparte has been …?” A sob rose in my throat.

  “No. At the gate a lady told me my son was king,” Signora Letizia said.

  I stood up, went to the window, pulled back the drape. A chill came off the glass. King?

  “The General has saved the Republic!” Bonaparte’s courier Moustache smelled of liquor. “The spirit of the Republic has saved the General!”

  “What did he say?” Signora Letizia demanded. “The spirit saves who?”

  “He said Bonaparte has had a victory,” I said slowly, so that my mother-in-law would understand.

  “Ah, victory,” she said, flashing her even teeth.

  Almost midnight.

  A cold pouring rain. Signora Letizia and Pauline left about a half-hour ago, thank God. I am alone again, alone with my thoughts, my prayers—keeping vigil. I think of the men on horseback in the rain, of Bonaparte and Eugène. I think of Barras out at Grosbois, alone like myself. I see him walking the cold and empty halls—drunk, likely, weaving and raging. Betrayed.

  Fouché just came and went, bringing the news that victory had not been as easy as they had hoped. In the end, force had been required.

  Force? “But everything was to be done within the law.”

  “It’s law now,” he smirked.

  Almost 2:00 in the morning, still raining.

  Eugène is home—at last!—soaking wet, but exhilarated by battle, a battle won. “Deputies were running all over the place, holding up their togas like ladies. Their red capes are everywhere—on the bushes, in the trees.”

  “And Bonaparte?”

  He laughed. “That black stallion very nearly threw him. He looked a fright. His face was covered with blood—”

  “Blood!”

  “—from scratching that boil,” he assured me.

  Dawn.

  Bonaparte and Fauvelet didn’t return until four in the morning. I was sitting up in the dark when they came into the bedchamber, Fauvelet carrying a lantern, teasing Bonaparte about “talking foolishness.”

  I threw my arms around my husband. “What foolishness?” Examining his face in the dim lantern light, I could see traces of something dark. As Eugène had said, it looked as if Bonaparte had scratched his boil. I would treat it with plantain water in the morning, I thought. I made a mental note to talk to my cook.

  Bonaparte threw his jacket over a chair. “I guess I got a bit carried away,” he confessed.

  “Tell me!”

  Fauvelet let out a little giggle. “The General announced to the Five Hundred that he was the God of War and the God of Fortune,” he said, setting the lantern down on a drum stool.

  I looked at Bonaparte, amused. “Both?”

  “I didn’t say I was God,” Bonaparte protested, putting out a foot so that Fauvelet could pull off his boot. “It just sounded as if I did.”

  “So tell me, what happened? How did it go?” I crawled back into the bed and pulled the comforters up to my chin, like a child eager to hear a bedtime story. And so I was told:

  How Lucien had been the hero of the day—

  “Lucien?”

  Bonaparte shrugged as if to say, Who would have guessed?

  How Lucien had publicly threatened to stab Bonaparte if he were ever a traitor to Liberty—

  “He told them he’d stab you?”

  “With his dagger drawn,” Fauvelet exclaimed, demonstrating.

  How Lucien had thrown down his toga and jumped on it—

  “At the Tribunal?” Incredulous.

  “Like this.” Fauvelet jumped up and down.

  “But he put it back on.” Bonaparte was drinking cognac—something I’d never seen him do.

  How fearless Murat had led the charge—

  “There was a charge?” Alarmed.

  “They were rising up against me!” Bonaparte pulled a flannel nightshirt over his head.

  And how, confronted by a pressing crowd, Bonaparte had started to faint.

  “Really?” How awful.

  Fauvelet rolled his eyes as if to say, Yes, really.

  “I hate that feeling,” Bonaparte said.


  And how it had been Lucien who had chased after the fleeing deputies in the dark, and had gathered together a sufficient number to pass a decree establishing a new government.

  “So there are no longer directors?”

  “Gone,” Fauvelet said, yawning. “Instead, there are three consuls who have full executive—”

  “Three provisional consuls,” Bonaparte corrected him.

  “Yes. General Bonaparte, together with Sieyès and Ducos, who—”

  “Good night, Fauvelet.” Bonaparte cut him short, slipping under the covers and burrowing close to me for warmth. I wrapped my arms and legs around him, kissed him. “And oh, don’t forget—” Bonaparte lifted his head just as his secretary was about to shut the door. “Tomorrow we sleep in the palace.”

  * Thérèse believed that the play was about her.

  * It’s not known whether Barras ever received this money; it is possible Talleyrand did in fact keep it.

  ** Napoleon was expecting a decree from the Council of the Ancients giving him control of the troops in Paris. This was the first step in the plan.

  * In his memoirs—published one hundred years later—Barras confessed that he had in fact arranged for assassins to kill Bonaparte, but had called them off at the last minute.

  VI

  Angel of Mercy

  The Age of Fable is over;

  the Reign of History has begun.

  —Josephine, to Thérèse Tallien

  In which I must live in a haunted palace

  November 11, 1799.

  Hortense and Caroline arrived shortly before the evening meal. “Maman, it was so exciting!” Hortense exclaimed.

  “I want to tell it.” Caroline pressed her hands to her heart. “Joachim sent four grenadiers of the guard—”

  “Commander Murat, you mean?”

  “Yes … Joachim Murat sent four grenadiers to our school to tell me that the Republic had been saved by my brother.” She fell back onto the sofa, as if in a swoon.

  “Well, they weren’t sent just to tell you,” Hortense said.