Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe (24 page)

After my morning toilette I took a quick repast in the upstairs drawing room. Lisette, claiming vapours, had gone to her room in the basement. Bonaparte was in the study with Fauvelet, Junot and several other of his aides. Or so I thought.

It was as I was finishing a cup of coffee that Bonaparte came upstairs, asking after Junot. “I thought he was with you,” I said.

“I haven’t seen him all morning.” Perplexed. “Perhaps he went riding.”

“Perhaps,” I said, standing, suddenly uneasy.

The steep stairs that led down to the servants’ quarters in the basement were dark. At the landing I paused. I thought I heard a man’s voice. Perhaps it was the cook, or my manservant. But I didn’t think so.

At the bottom I stopped, suddenly unsure. The air was colder than above, but stale and smelling of flat-irons. I could simply open the door to Lisette’s room—was that not how it was done in plays? Instead, I knocked.

“Tell her I’ll be up in a moment,” I heard Lisette call out with an irritated tone. The door was thin; I could hear quite clearly. I knocked again, harder this time, more insistent.

“Tell her to hold her horses!” A man’s voice: Junot!

“I’ll hold
your
horses,” I heard Lisette say, giggling, and then, “That woman’s going to drive me mad.”

That woman.
I turned the metal latch. The door swung open with a complaining creak. There, nude on a narrow trundle bed under the high dirty window, were Lisette and Junot, Lisette straddling. Both of them turned their faces toward me in a curiously co-ordinated motion.

“Bonaparte is looking for you, Colonel Junot,” I said, backing out of the room and closing the door behind me. I went back up the stairs, pushing against both walls for support, my legs unsteady beneath me.

Mimi was in my bedchamber, gathering soiled linen. “I’m fine,” I reassured her. “But I’d like to be alone.” Her look of tender concern would make me weep, I feared. I heard heavy footsteps downstairs, heard a door open, slam shut, the low rumble of men’s voices. I sat down on one of the hard stools by the bed. I’d never seen a man with a woman before, not like that,
en flagrante.
A man with a girl.

I was sipping a second glass of hysteric water when I heard the floorboards creak outside my door and then three light raps. I did not answer.

Three raps again. The latch turned, the door swung open. “Forgive me, Madame,” Lisette said, her hands clasped in front of her, her head bowed.

I didn’t know what to say. I did not have it in me to forgive her. It was not the deed so much as those words she had spoken:
that woman.
Was that all I was to her? I had come to believe that we shared an affection, one for the other. We’d been through so much together. But clearly, I’d been mistaken. “Gather your things, Lisette.”

“Madame, please—!” She pressed her hands to her face.

Was she crying? I doubted it. She reached out to touch my hand as I passed by her, heading out the door. I was not mistaken. Her eyes were clear.

“It was just once, Madame. I promise …” I closed the door behind me, short of breath. “You’ll be sorry,” I heard her cry.

“You dismissed your maid?” Bonaparte asked, pulling on his jacket, preparing to go to the Luxembourg Palace for a meeting with the Directors. “But why?”

Junot, leaning against the mantel, observed me, his cold blue eyes unflinching.

“It was a personal matter,” I told my husband evenly, avoiding Junot’s gaze. There was no point telling Bonaparte. Junot was one of his oldest friends.

“You allowed her too many familiarities. It spoils a maid.” “Yes,” I said.

“Next time, you’ll know better.” I heard Junot’s knuckles crack.

March 14, midday.

“Everyone knew,” Mimi told me.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“That’s not my way.”

“Will you be my lady’s maid?”

“An upstairs maid?” Mimi paused, considering.

I touched her hand. “Please, Mimi—I need someone I know I can trust.” I felt like a ship without a rudder. I no longer believed in my own judgement.

She made a doubtful face. “I’d have to learn manners.” “But you’ll do it?”

She grinned. “I promised your mother I’d look after you, didn’t I?”

March 16.

Bonaparte’s older brother Joseph has taken to dropping in every day for the midday meal. Today he asked for a private consultation with Bonaparte, so I excused myself. They were sequestered for some time. Then Bonaparte’s secretary appeared. “The General and his brother wish to speak with you, Madame,” Fauvelet Bourrienne informed me, his look uneasy.

Bonaparte had his feet up on his desk and was tapping the desktop with a riding crop. “Leave, Fauvelet,” he told his secretary. “And close the door!”

Joseph was slouched in the chair by the fire examining his fingernails. He looked up at me and smiled. It was then that I knew I was in trouble.

“Joseph has just informed me that you have had dealings with a military supply company.” Bonaparte glanced over at his brother, who nodded. “The Bodin Company, to be specific, which was recently awarded a contract to provide horses to the Army of Italy.”

I glanced from Bonaparte to Joseph and back again. “What are you talking about?” I demanded, my heart pounding.

“Perhaps this will refresh your memory.” Joseph withdrew a sheet of paper from his waistcoat pocket and read, “Twenty-one Rue Honoré.” He smiled.

Hugo Bodin lived at one hundred Rue Honoré, not twenty-one. “I’ve never been there.”

“Curious,” Joseph said, still smiling. “You were seen entering at twenty to eleven on fifteen Ventôse and did not emerge until three that afternoon. You were seen there again on the twenty-second, and then again on the twenty-third.”

“Am I being followed?”

“Confess, Josephine!” Bonaparte exploded. “Is that not where you go every day—when you tell me that you go to the riding school to watch your son?”

It was a violent exchange. (I’m trembling still.) “Go ahead, divorce me, if that’s what you want!” I ended up screaming. All the while Joseph Bonaparte smiled.

March 17, late morning, exhausted.

A sleepless night. Joseph knew everything—the details about the contracts, the finances! How did he find out? Somebody must be informing him. I suspect it might be Jubié, the banker Hugo Bodin has been dealing with. I’ve dispatched a letter to Captain Charles to warn him, warn Hugo Bodin.

I feel trapped, enraged. What right has Joseph to interfere in my dealings? What right has he to spy on me? For that matter, what right has
Bonaparte to treat me with such contempt! They self-righteously accuse me of crimes of which they themselves are guilty. I’m not married to Bonaparte, I’m married to a Corsican clan—and I despise them.

11:30
P.M.
(can’t sleep).

Bonaparte sat down on his bed. I was on my own, stretched out stiffly in my dressing gown. “You know I am right in this matter,” he said coldly, as if from on high.

I did not answer.

“Answer me!” His hands fists.

“You are always
right,
Bonaparte,” I said, turning my betrothal ring on my finger. I could have it melted down, I was thinking, made into earrings.

“Admit it—you’ve been dabbling in military supplies.”

Dabbling.
The word irked me. Did men “dabble”? The fact was, I’d “dabbled” long before we were married, long before we’d met. And I happened to be good at it. The profits paid my rent, enabled me to send my children to school—enabled me to survive. “Yes, Bonaparte, I
dabble.
As do your brothers, as does your Uncle Fesch.” As he himself had in Italy. As did virtually all the officers in the army. As did all the
bon ton
of Paris, for that matter.

“It is unseemly for women to mingle in business.”

He was talking like an old-fashioned country friar. “Things have changed. Many women—”

“Not my wife!”

“We have an agreement, Bonaparte: you pay for your expenses and I pay for mine.” I clenched my hands, digging my nails into my palms. “I’m the one who must pay for Hortense’s schooling. I’m the one who must raise a considerable sum for her dowry, who must provide uniforms for my son. How do you expect me to do this, I ask you? I’d be on the street, frankly, if it weren’t for my so-called dabbling.” (Well, perhaps I was exaggerating a little.)

He stomped out of the room. He is sleeping in the study tonight.
Bien.
He can stay there, for all I care.

March 18.

Mimi helped me on with my wool cloak. “Not your fur?” she asked, giving my shoulder a motherly squeeze. “It’s cold out.”

“I’ll be fine.” To Mimi, it was always cold. “Should Bonaparte ask, tell him I’ve gone to the stay-maker’s.”

She looked at me for a long moment. “But the stay-maker is coming here tomorrow.”

“I mean the milliner’s,” I said, my cheeks heated. I’d never lied to Mimi before. I was becoming a person who did not trust—a person who was not trustworthy. At the door I looked back. “Forgive me?”

In a reckless clatter my coachman drove the horses out the gate. Approaching Monceau Park, I pulled my black shawl from my basket, draped it over my head. My coachman helped me down, cautioning me against the mud. Fortunately, it was no longer raining. An army of beggars cried out, holding out their hands. I gave them a bag of crusts. Where was Captain Charles? I wondered, opening my parasol in spite of the clouds. I’d sent him word to meet me at ten. I felt uneasy entering Monceau Park unescorted. I was relieved, finally, to see a man approaching on a black horse, trotting smartly down the central path. He waved a white plumed hat. I headed for a bench by some Roman columns.

“I meant to get here before you,” Captain Charles said, dismounting East Wind with a graceful leap, “but I got tied up making arrangements for Milan.” He looped the reins over a branch. Then he pitched two empty wine bottles into the bushes. “Here,” he said, taking a silk tasselled scarf out of his saddlebag and spreading it over the stone bench.

I sat down at the far edge in order to give him room—more than he needed. I pulled my cloak tight. It was a damp and miserable day; now I regretted not wearing my fur.

“I talked to Hugo,” he said, sitting forward, looking out over the pond. His full lips grazed the edge of his blue neck scarf, tied so that it completely covered his chin. He cleared his throat. “You were right. It was the banker Jubié. It turns out he knows your husband’s brother.”

“So.” I crossed my arms across my chest. I didn’t like it when I felt this way—so distant. “And Jubié told Joseph I was involved in the company?” Captain Charles nodded. “But how did
he
come to know? Hugo vowed to keep it confidential.”

Captain Charles threw a pebble into the pond. “Hugo said he had to tell him. Otherwise he wouldn’t have advanced us the money.”

Of course, of course, I thought angrily. I watched the rings of water opening. I wanted to throw something into the pond too, but I felt too old for such games, and that thought made me sad.

“Jubié and your brother-in-law went out on the town, apparently.” Captain Charles grinned. “To three taverns, a gambling establishment and a brothel.”

I shrugged. I’d heard stories of Joseph’s debauchery before, usually from his tearful wife.

“Are you going to quit the company?” he asked.

“No.” I couldn’t—even if I wanted to. I’d borrowed a small fortune in order to join. If I pulled out now, I’d be ruined. “I’d sooner get a divorce,” I lied.

“That would please your brother-in-law. Apparently he told Jubié that he would not rest until he’d succeeded in getting his brother to divorce you,” the captain said, tapping a stick against the toe of his boot.

“Oh?” That helped explain why Joseph had been spying on me, his mean little smile. Yet even so, it surprised me. I knew Joseph didn’t care for me, but I didn’t think he’d go so far as to try to get Bonaparte to divorce me.

“He told the banker that you married his brother for his money.”

I laughed, I confess. When we’d married, Bonaparte had had no money. “That’s amusing. What
else
did he say?”

“That you have Bonaparte under your spell.” I smiled. Well…. “And that you’re a witch.” He made an apologetic shrug.

A witch? What
had I ever done to Joseph to deserve such a hateful slur?

“I’m sorry, Madame Bonaparte, but I thought you should know. It helps, I think, knowing who you can trust—”

“And who you can’t,” I said, kicking a pebble. It skittered across the
path and into the water. I watched the rings opening, one upon the other. How far did it go, the deceit?

After, I went to Thérèse’s. I was in a state. “Look,” I told her, pacing, “I can’t quit the Bodin Company even if I wanted to.” I owed almost half a million francs to Barras alone. The only way to get out was to stay in long enough to pay off my debts.

“May I make a suggestion?” Thérèse said, trying to calm me. “Talk to Bonaparte. Tell him he’s been a cheap tightwad—impossible to live with!—that he’s put you in an untenable position, that you didn’t intend to compromise him by doing what
everybody
in Paris is doing, including all the members of his avaricious family, and then tell him you intend to withdraw. So, maybe extricating yourself will take a little longer than you let on, and maybe he’s better off not knowing. From the apoplectic fits he throws over the purchase of a hat, I can guarantee you that he doesn’t want to know the extent of your debts. Frankly, all he really wants to hear is that you love him. So why don’t you just tell him?” She laughed at my cross expression. “Well, you do, you know. Why don’t you just admit it?”

[Undated]

“Yeyette?” Mimi set a tray down on the table beside the bed. “I got the cook to make some plantain bread for you.” She handed me a piece.

“Oh Mimi, I’m so miserable,” I confessed. I’d slept alone for three nights, tossing and turning.

“The General is unhappy, as well.”

“Oh?” I bit into the heavenly smelling loaf, my childhood welling up around me in my mind.