Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe (16 page)

He grunted. I looked over at Signora Letizia. She tipped her head slightly. Did that mean yes? I wasn’t sure. “Very well then,” I said with more confidence than I felt. I opened the door for Signora Letizia. “We will work out the details this afternoon,” I whispered to her. She stomped woodenly out of the room.

I closed the door behind me, but was startled by an explosion of laughter.

“Well done!” Bonaparte embraced me.

June 14.

“There’s a strange little man to see you.” In honour of the festivities Lisette had put on her best gown—a muslin chemise banded by violet shirring that she’d done herself.

“The priest from the village?”

“I … I think
not.”

A little man entered the room, his boots in his hand. His socks were dirty and full of holes. He bowed before me. “Signora Bonaparte?”

“Father Brioschi?” It
was
the priest. But his clothes! “Lisette, ask him if he brought his vestments.”

“Habetisne vestimenta?” she asked him in Latin.

“Si.” But he just stood there.

“I’ll get someone who speaks Italian,” Lisette said, heading out the door.

I nudged a wooden chair toward Father Brioschi. “Peccato,” he said.
What a shame?
I wondered what he meant. I was saved from the discomfort of this “dialogue” by Lisette returning with Caroline Bonaparte, her plump young body squeezed into a pink taffeta gown covered with a froth of ruffles.

“Caroline, this is Father Brioschi. Could you—?”

“ This
is the priest?”

“Could you ask him whether he has brought his robes?”

“Ha portato i suoi abiti?” The little man said something in Italian and shrugged. “He didn’t bring anything,” Caroline said.

“Perhaps your uncle has something he could borrow.” Uncle Fesch travelled with an elaborate wardrobe, much of it gleaned from the coffers of vanquished Italian nobility and clergy.

Shortly, Lisette returned, staggering under the weight of a jewel-encrusted white wool cape. I displayed it for the humble priest. “Per voi.”

He ran his fingers over the glittering surface, whispering something reverent in Italian. “He said it’s as lumpy as a diseased sow,” Caroline said.

The oratory smelled mouldy in spite of all the flower bouquets. Pauline emerged in a gown so revealing that Father Brioschi was rendered speechless. Victor Leclerc looked on blissfully, his hat cocked sideways, wearing a grey overcoat very much like that of Bonaparte. He could not take his eyes off the wonder of this beauty, his bride. (His bride could not take her eyes off her own reflection in the polished brass.) Then a frowning Elisa and a trembling Félix joined them at the altar—thankfully, no hiccups—and Father Brioschi was finally able to squawk out the lines.

So, now that the ceremonies are over, it’s time to prepare for a feast, a reception and a ball. Already, the Bonapartes are bickering over the seating arrangements at table tonight. Already, I’m exhausted.

[Undated]

“Is something going on?” Lisette asked, biting off a thread. “Signora Letizia changed her gown.”

“Likely it has to do with the viewing today.”

“The viewing?” Lisette licked the thread to knot it.

“During the Ancien Régime, the public thronged to Versailles every weekend to watch King Louis XV eat an egg. So, the Bonapartes thought that the public should be allowed to watch Bonaparte eat.”

She looked astonished. I put up my hands as if to say, Don’t ask me, I have nothing to do with it!

June 19.

“They’re gone, Madame!” Lisette poured me a glass of champagne.

“Pour a glass for yourself, Lisette,” I offered. I was in a celebratory mood. Jérôme had been sent back to school in Paris. Joseph, his wife Julie and young Caroline Bonaparte had departed for Rome. Louis had been sent to Brescia with dispatches. And now; just this morning, Signora Letizia, Elisa and her hapless husband had left for Corsica.

Leaving only Pauline.

I heard a door slam, a shrill voice.

I clinked my glass against Lisette’s and smiled ruefully.
Only
Pauline?

^*
Mal-aria: malaria, translated in Italian as “bad air,” which people believed to be the cause of the disease.

^*
La beauté du diable: beauty of the devil, or bloom of youth, the sexual appeal of a girl.

^*
Before the Revolution, aristocrats wore boots with high red heels.

^*
Aimée Hosten, a créole friend of Josephine’s with whom she was imprisoned.

^**
A country villa north of Milan that Josephine and Bonaparte leased for the hot summer months.

^*
Oh spring, youth of the year! Oh youth, springtime of life!

In which I receive shocking news

June 21, 1797—Mombello.

“Is this all the mail there is from Paris?” I put down the small stack.

“That’s what Moustache said,” Lisette said, staring out the window.

“Nothing from my daughter?” Nothing from Eugène, either.

“Just what’s there.” She burst out laughing. “The footman is drunk! You should see him.”

I went through the stack for the third time, more slowly: a letter from my banker; two letters from Barras; three from Aunt Désirée; two from Thérèse; a number from people whose names I did not recognize, the usual requests for favours. And bills, of course. Quite a few.

I tore open a notice from Madame Campan. It was only an announcement about an upcoming recital—a recital I would miss. Attached was a little note: “I thought you would like to know that ‘the general’ called on your daughter. All is well. She has become a beautiful young woman. She was brilliant in the part of Cassandra in
Agamemnon.”

Lisette was laughing again at the scene outside the window. “Madame, come here—quickly.” She turned, puzzled by my silence. “Madame, what is it? Is it bad news?”

“Oh—no.” I smoothed out Madame Campan’s note. The perspiration from my hand had caused the ink to smear.

Lisette stood up. “Would you like me to get you some orange water?”

I shook my head. How could I explain? I handed her the note. I felt foolish, so suddenly overcome. Somehow, I hadn’t realized—had not been prepared.

“That’s nice.” Lisette turned the note over in her hands, mystified.

A beautiful young woman.
“Yes,” I said, blinking back tears.

June 22.

“Madame Bonaparte is in the garden,” I heard our footman say. I saw a white plume bobbing above the boxwood hedge, heard a young man’s voice. A
familiar
voice! I picked up my skirts, hurried down the narrow path, my heart racing.

We very nearly collided. Eugène lifted me in his arms, twirling me clumsily. “I can’t believe it, it’s actually you,” I cried out, my eyes stinging.

He wiggled his hands behind his ears. “Yes, Maman, it’s me—truly. Just in time for your birthday.”

I took his hands in mine, blinking and sniffing. He remembered! “You didn’t write. I wasn’t expecting you for another month.” It was such a joy to see him.

Sheepishly, he pulled his hands away. “I know, I’m neglecting to wear my riding gloves, I’m neglecting to clip my nails.” Imitating my voice, grinning.

“I wasn’t thinking that,” I protested, laughing. “When did you grow so tall?” Yet still, that boyish face: dimples, freckles across his nose. “How was your journey?”

But before he could answer, he was startled by my new dog sniffing at his boots. “What’s this?” he exclaimed, jumping back.

“His name is Pugdog.” The tiny black creature sat down by the side of the path, panting like an old dog, his lame leg sticking out to one side.

“What does Fortuné have to say about that?” Eugène bent down to stroke Pugdog’s head.

I made a sad face. “Fortuné was killed, Eugène.”

“Fortuné!”

“Not long ago. He challenged the cook’s mastiff and …” My eyes welled up remembering.

“Fortuné
took on a mastiff?” He scoffed at the thought. “Come,” I said, pulling on his arm, “Bonaparte’s in the stable.”

My son stopped abruptly on the path. “General Bonaparte?” he stammered.

“He’ll be so pleased that you’ve arrived.” I tugged at him again, but he was too big to budge. And then I understood. The stepfather he hardly knew was now a hero, hailed Liberator of Italy. The stepfather he hardly knew was now his commanding general.

June 23.

Immediately, Eugène’s training has begun. “A superior war is won without fighting,” I overheard Bonaparte instructing him this evening, after our meal. “One can use the forces of nature to good effect, but knowledge is the key. Battles are won here.” Bonaparte tapped his forehead. “Not here.” He put his hand on the pommel of his sword. “Am I understood?”

“Yes, General!” Eugène said eagerly.

Bonaparte caught my eye and grinned.

June 29, 8:00
P.M.
or so. Stiff!

Eugène, Junot and Captain Charles spurred their horses, raced ahead. Lisette did her best to keep up (she’s bold on a horse). I was content to follow at a more leisurely pace, taking a path that edged a pond, relishing the solitude, the vistas. It was a glorious summer day.

Before long I realized I was lost. I was beginning to worry when I saw a man on horseback on the horizon: Captain Charles. I kicked my horse into a gallop. “I was lost!” Laughing, I pulled to a halt beside him, doubling my reins to hold my horse back. The burst of freedom had excited him.

Captain Charles struck a heroic pose. “I returned to rescue a damsel in distress.”

“So this is East Wind,” I said, looking at the captain’s mount. There’d been talk about the horse Captain Charles had recently bought, outrageous speculation about how much he’d paid for her. (The one-hundred-louis ride, Pauline called the mare.) Well built, a glistening black, she radiated both power and beauty.

“Like her?” He stroked his horse’s neck. The silver ornaments on her headband sparkled in the light.

The horse was magnificent, without a doubt. And the captain cut an exceptionally handsome figure, I thought, noting the unusual stitching around the cuff of his riding jacket, the square bone buttons. “My father once had the good fortune to own such a horse,” I said. “A gambling win. Lady Luck, he called her.”

“Mine was luck of a different sort.”

Our horses were walking side by side now, in pace. “Oh?”

“I did rather well on a business contract.” He swiped a fly off East Wind’s ear.

“Through the Bodin brothers?”

“Yes, and as a result they’ve invited me to join their company. They have profited from buying and selling National Properties, but now they wish to expand into the area of military supplies, specializing in horses.”

“For the Army of Italy?”

“I guess it is foolish of me to reveal such a thing.” Or simply very trusting, I thought. “May I tell you something in confidence, Madame? As soon as peace is signed, I intend to resign the army. Not every man is meant to be a soldier.”

Certainly, it was hard to imagine the captain with a sabre in his hand—hard to imagine him using it. “Military suppliers do very well.” Military suppliers became outrageously wealthy overnight.

“With the right connections, yes, but without—” He made a clucking sound that caused his mare to spurt forward. “So far the Bodins have been unsuccessful in their efforts to get a government contract.”

“They’ve applied to the Minister of War?”

“Yes, but without the consent of a certain director, it’s useless.” He glanced at me.

“Director Barras, by any chance?”

“I understand you are on intimate terms with him.”

“Director Barras and I are friends.”

“That puts you in a powerful position.”

I laughed. “Not really.”

“Madame, may I ask you something?” We headed down a steep incline. I leaned to keep my sidesaddle from slipping.

“Certainly,” I said. No doubt he wanted me to recommend the Bodin Company to Barras. I am so often appealed to for favours, I’ve come to recognize the clues.

“Might you consider joining our company? I hope I haven’t offended you by suggesting such a thing, Madame.”

I pressed my calf against my horse’s side, to move her over. “On the contrary.” Indeed, it was a most interesting proposition.

“With the right contacts, one could make millions.”

Millions.
My horse pricked her ears. I heard the pounding of hooves. Lisette (in the lead!), followed by Junot and Eugène, appeared at the edge of the woods. They raced toward us at a gallop, yelling and laughing.

“It appears we’ve been discovered, Captain,” I said.

“And now there will be rumours.” Captain Charles spurred East Wind. She bucked into a gallop. My horse pulled at the bit, eager to follow. I grabbed her mane and gave her her head, my heart pounding, the wind in my face.

July 3.

The Austrian delegates will arrive in one week—representatives of the most ancient royal court of Europe. I’m in a panic! If only I’d had my tooth attended to earlier.

July 4, late afternoon. (Hot!)

Dr. Rossi, the dental surgeon, is a little man with bushy red whiskers that he constantly pulls on. He told me a new tooth would successfully root—for a price, nine hundred francs, and this without a guarantee. I explained to him the urgency of my situation; I’m to return in the morning.

July 5.

I’m ill! It was
ghastly.

Evening, almost midnight (can’t sleep from pain).
What happened:

There was a peasant girl in Dr. Rossi’s antechamber when I arrived. She grinned, displaying yellow teeth. Dr. Rossi’s maid showed me to a small room, in the middle of which was a leather chair. I was asked to sit and (apologetically) asked to remove my hat, which I did. The doctor entered after a moment, pulling on his whiskers. He peered into my mouth and probed at my bad tooth with a pointed metal object. He seemed pleased by the pain this caused me: “Excellent, excellent.”