Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe (20 page)

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 silver-embroidered 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 young, but before you know it, your youth will have slipped away. Children give one immeasurable joy.”

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.

His rage had to do with money. The designer I’d hired to make over the house had demanded payment for the renovations—one hundred thousand francs! I sat down, stunned. That was an incomprehensible sum. “One hundred and thirty, in fact,” Bonaparte ranted, kicking the flaming logs, making sparks fly. “The house itself is only worth forty, and you don’t even own it. The frieze in the dining room isn’t even painted by David. It’s by one of his students.”

There was a frieze in the dining room? “Most of the value is in furnishings, Bonaparte,” I said in my defence.

“Most? Even seventy thousand in furniture would be outrageous—I don’t care who made it, Jacob Brothers or not! There’s no way I’m going to pay for half of this. I’ll contribute thirty thousand, but not a sou more.”

Leaving
me with
a bill for one hundred thousand? “No doubt there has been a mistake. I’ll talk to Vautier.” The renovations were the last thing I wanted to deal with, however, after an absence of almost two years. First I had to see Hortense. And then, of course, Aunt Désirée, the dear old Marquis. And then Thérèse—had she had her baby yet? And how was Père Barras?
And the
Glories, of course! Not to mention the business I needed to attend to, my lawyer to see.

“How can there be a mistake? Vautier produced your letters as evidence. You gave him total licence! One never gives total licence.”

I removed my gloves, taking in the changes: the Pompeian frescoes, military trophies, chairs upholstered in striped fabric. The renovation was simple, yet elegant. I ran my hand over the surface of the new mahogany desk. The grain seemed to shimmer under my fingertips. I felt I could see deep into the heart of the wood. “Does
none of it
please you, Bonaparte?”

“Come see our beds,” he said with a little grin.

Our bedroom had been designed to look like a military tent. “Watch.” Bonaparte released a latch and our two beds sprang together with a noisy clatter.

“Clever!” I sat down on one of the stools, covered with chamois leather to resemble a drum. The beds were draped with a canopy of blue and white stripes, the bedposts forged from cannon.

Bonaparte tugged at my arm.

“Not now, Bonaparte,” I pleaded, but smiling. “It’s not even noon yet, and I need a bath.”

“We’ll bathe together,” he said, pulling at my sleeve, “after.”

Late now, almost 11:00
P.M.
, a very long day

I’d bathed and was changing into an afternoon gown when I heard horses
in the courtyard. A slender young woman in a white riding frock was stepping down from a barouche. A mass of golden curls fell to her shoulders. I put my hands over my mouth. Mon Dieu. Hortense?

“Maman!” Hortense cried out when she saw me, all the airs of une élégante of Paris giving way to that of a girl. Her eyes were an extraordinary blue; how was it possible that that surprised me? She slipped off her cloak, chattering. “Where’s Eugène? I saw his horse saddled by the stable. That’s Louis Bonaparte’s horse? The General’s brother is staying here? But why isn’t Eugène back yet? I’ve been telling all my friends he would be returning with you.”

My daughter’s long fingernails were painted red. And breasts—she had breasts! “Eugène is in Rome,” I stuttered. “He’ll be—”

“What took you so long? Where were you? Every day there have been notices in the journals that you’d arrived. Maman, what’s wrong? Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing,” I croaked, taking her in, this lovely young woman.

Aunt Désirée arrived shortly after, barking instructions at two valets who carried the old Marquis into the house by the garden entrance. They deposited him in the down armchair, where he looked about with a dazed expression. I asked my manservant to put on a fire and Lisette to set out the gifts I had brought back from Italy with me.

“Modern,” Aunt Désirée said, looking around the drawing room, appraising the changes.

“Grecian is modern?” I stooped to kiss the old Marquis. His beard smelled of brilliantine.

“Bonne à Pare Té!” he said with vigour.

Hortense laughed. Aunt Désirée motioned to her to sit straight, keep her knees together, fold her hands in her lap, and not to laugh so loudly—all in one silent gesture known to all women and girls. Hortense made a prim face, but nevertheless did as instructed. Aunt Désirée gave me a triumphant look. “Hortense, that shawl looks lovely—did your mother
bring it back from Italy for you? Where is our famous General, Rose? I bought a flower vase for three francs just because it had his image on it.”

“Bonaparte is at the Luxembourg Palace right now, at a meeting with the Directors.” I motioned to Louis Bonaparte to join us. “But I’d like to introduce you to Louis, Bonaparte’s brother.” Hoping that the presence of at least one Bonaparte might appease.

Aunt Désirée gave Louis what I knew to be the appraising look of a woman on the watch for a husband for her niece. “Charmed! How many brothers does General Bonaparte have? And sisters, of course.”

“There are a great many of us, and soon to be more,” Louis said, tugging at a budding moustache. He glanced at Hortense, a flush colouring his cheeks. My daughter lowered her eyes. “My oldest brother Joseph is in Rome with my sister Caroline—”

“And Eugène,” I interjected, arranging gifts on the table—a Roman vase, a glass bowl from Venice, a length of embroidered silk brocade from Genoa as well as a number of pretty trinkets.

“My sister Pauline is in Milan,” Louis went on. “She’s married and in an interesting condition. And my other married sister who lives in Corsica is also in an interesting condition. And my brother Lucien is in the north, and
his wife
is in an interesting condition, as well. And then there is Jérôme, who is going to school here in Paris.”

“Jérôme is only thirteen,” I said, chagrined by the parade of fertile Bonaparte women—of which, it was clear, I was not one.

“How nice for Hortense and Eugène to have so many new brothers and sisters,” Aunt Désirée exclaimed with too much enthusiasm, perhaps in an effort to display her Christian acceptance of so many Corsican relatives. “I mean aunts and uncles. And
so
many cousins to come,” she added, acknowledging the fecundity of the Bonaparte clan.

Louis backed toward the door. He had an English lesson to attend, he explained, and therefore had to take his leave.

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” Hortense told him in careful English.

“Thank you, miss. Goodbye,” Louis answered in kind, tipping his hat in the English manner.

“What a charming boy,” Aunt Désirée said as soon as he was out the door, turning the Roman vase in her hands. I explained to her that it was
not “modern” but actually quite ancient. And then we talked of this and of that—the extraordinary welcome Paris had given Bonaparte on his return, Hortense’s awards at school, how well Eugène was doing as an aide-de-camp—and then, of course, the gossip:

“Of course, you’ve heard the news regarding General Hoche.” Aunt Désirée had the look of a cat depositing a dead mouse at the foot of its owner. “Regarding his
murder.”

I closed my fan. I opened my fan.

Aunt Désirée leaned forward. “You know what I heard? That it was your friend Director Barras who did it.”

“Aunt Désirée,” I interupted. I didn’t want Hortense to hear false rumours.

“My theory,” Aunt Désirée went on, disregarding me, “is that Director Barras, who is known to be greedy, was after the million francs General Hoche embezzled.”

“Aunt Désirée, I don’t think—”

“It was eight hundred thousand.”

I looked at the Marquis in astonishment. He had slumped down so far into his armchair that he was practically doubled over, a dreamy expression in his half-closed eyes. “Did the Marquis speak just now?” I asked.

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Aunt Désirée said. “It was well over one million.”

They stayed for a light repast and then had to leave in order not to unduly tire the Marquis. Hortense is staying with them in town because, as Aunt Désirée informed me, it would be improper for an unmarried young lady to stay in the same house as an unmarried young man, even if that young man is actually her uncle. Tearfully I bade them all adieu and ordered my horses harnessed: I was anxious to see my lawyer about the Bodin Company contract. And then, after that, Thérèse, and after
that,
Barras.

“Thérèse is still in childbed,” Tallien (civil, but not sober) informed me.
The baby had been born thirteen days earlier, on the solstice. “A girl,” he shrugged. “She died at birth.”