The Josephine B. Trilogy by Sandra Gulland
October 15.
“The head of the Austrian delegation wishes to speak with you, Madame.” Lisette opened her eyes wide.
“Comte de Cobenzl? Show him in, please!” One did not keep a man of such importance waiting.
As the Comte de Cobenzl entered, my impulse was to bow, but I refrained. As I am the wife of General Bonaparte, the victor, the Comte Louis de Cobenzl should, in theory, bow to me. We solved the impasse by bowing at precisely the same moment, and with an equal degree of respect.
“I will not be long, Madame Bonaparte,” he said, refusing my offer of a chair. “I requested a private audience with you because I am gravely concerned about the future of the negotiations. General Bonaparte has been treating us…rudely, to be frank. At the least request from us, his temper gives way to violence. No doubt you are aware that he destroyed my prized china tea set.”
The day before, in a fit of temper, Bonaparte had thrown Cobenzl’s tea set to the ground—the tea set the Comte was so proud of, the one that had been given to him personally by Catherine the Great—exclaiming, as he did so, “I’ll break your monarchy like this china!”
“Comte de Cobenzl, please believe me,” I said, “I was dismayed when I—”
The Comte put up his hand. “There is much more at stake than a tea service, Madame. If the General continues in this fashion, I’m afraid Austria will have to withdraw from the negotiations.”
“Comte de Cobenzl—” Words escaped me. If the Austrian negotiators withdrew, there would be war again.
“My question to you is this: Would you speak to the General?”
Speak to Bonaparte? Was such a thing possible?
“We await the result.” The Comte de Cobenzl bowed, I bowed lower, he bowed lower still.
October 16.
“You are not to interfere!” Bonaparte showered spittle in his fury.
“I am not interfering!”
Bonaparte had returned from Udine early, fuming; the negotiations had been broken off. War would be resumed in twenty-four hours, he’d threatened. “How can you say that? Yesterday you met with the Comte de Cobenzl privately. You call that not interfering?”
“Have you been spying on me, Bonaparte?”
“This palace is riddled with spies. We are all of us spied upon. Even the spies are spied upon.”
I turned to face my husband. “The Comte de Cobenzl came to me of his own accord. He was seeking…advice.” Was a direct approach wise? So much was at stake. “He feels you have been rude, Bonaparte, that you do not wish to make the peace.”
Bonaparte laughed. “He’s fortunate to be alive and he complains about niceties. How…how aristocratic. Cobenzl acts as if he were at a salon, an afternoon tea. And then he demands Mantua. Mantua! Mantua is the key. If I were to let the Austrians have Mantua back, they would control Italy again in a very short time. And he wants me to be civil in the face of such a demand?”
“Bonaparte…” I took his hands in mine. It always surprises me how soft his skin is, how fine his bones. I looked into his eyes. How did one persuade such a man? “There is something I must say.”
“I do not hinder you.”
“If you treated Cobenzl civilly, perhaps he would be more likely to accede to your wishes.”
He looked incredulous. “You are suggesting that I be nice?”
“Bonaparte, really, you are so charming when you smile. Who could refuse you?”
October 17.
Bonaparte’s carriage pulled into the courtyard quite late, almost midnight. I saw him jump down from the carriage, followed by Eugène and Louis. I opened the window. “Peace is signed,”* Eugène called out, holding a flambeau aloft. “Pack for Paris!”
III
Profiteer
The scourge and leprosy of the services! Impudent thievery!
—Napoleon, on military suppliers
In which problems await me at home
December 16, 1797—France!
“I can understand what people are saying!” Lisette threw her arms in the air and twirled.
I knew her joy. The innkeeper in her crisp white bonnet had a familiar face. Did I not know her? Even the postillion seemed to have mounted his horse in a way that seemed mysteriously right.
“Look!” Lisette leapt about the cobblestones. “The sky is French, the mountains are French, the air is French. I bet that horse speaks French.” The old nag turned its head. “See?”
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 sai
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 Year’s 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 silverembroidered 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 y
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.