“Un momento,” I whispered to the hall porter, positioning myself beside the door out of sight, standing purposefully, as if spying on one’s husband was the normal thing to do.
“The enemy isn’t here, the enemy is in Paris! The Royalists have taken over. The traitors should be arrested, banished! All of them!
Veni, vidi, fugi,
my ass.
*
The journals should be repressed! They’re in the pay of England, of Austria, of every damned Royalist nation in Europe—why should they be tolerated? And the Church fomenting trouble again.
Basta!
Berthier, take this down. Address this to the Emperor. Yes, of course, the Emperor of Austria. Tell him this. Tell him if a peace agreement is not signed by the first of September—No, don’t put that. Put…what is it? Yes. Put fifteen Fructidor. Let him figure it out. If the peace negotiations are not concluded by fifteen Fructidor, we go to war. You heard me: war!”
I stepped into the doorway. Bonaparte turned to me, his eyes bulging. He looked feverish, emanating a manic energy.
“Has something happened?” I crossed the room and took his hand. He is shortsighted; it is a mistake to address him from a distance. “What’s all the shouting about?”
“Shouting?”
“We could hear you in the kitchen.”
Bonaparte glanced at his chief of staff, puzzled. “We weren’t shouting.”
La Chaumière
Darling!
A quick note: I’ve heard rumours that Lazare is being considered for Minister of War. Your husband is to take orders from your former lover? Nom de Dieu!
Your most loving, etc., Thérèse
July 18, past midnight (can’t sleep).
“May I ask you something?” Bonaparte’s hand on my shoulder was cold.
“Of course.” I kissed his hand, as if to warm it—warm him.
“How…close were you with General Hoche?”
“We were friends.”
He snorted. “You were lovers. Everyone knew that.”
I pulled the covering sheet up over me. “In prison, yes.” A partial truth.
“General Hoche is said to appeal to women. He’s a chevalier of the bedchamber, it is said.”
“Bonaparte, please, don’t be like this.” I pressed myself into his arms, pushing through the thicket of elbows and hands he put up as obstacles, pressing against him, knowing his need.
August 1.
“What does
res non verba
mean?” Eugène asked, looking up from reading the
Moniteur.
Res non verba
was Lazare’s motto. I looked over my son’s shoulder. The article quoted a speech Lazare had made to his troops. “It means, the thing, not the word—that what you do is more important than what you say,” I told Eugène, disconcerted by my son’s inability to translate a simple Latin phrase. I heard the sound of spurs jingling outside the door. Hastily, I folded the journal. “Eugène, don’t speak of General Hoche around Bonaparte,” I said under my breath, standing to greet my husband.
July 22, Luxembourg Palace, Paris
Chère amie,
It is almost midnight as I write this. I am in a state, I confess. Forgive my hasty pen. Regrettably, things did not work out with respect to Lazare. It is too complex a matter to explain here. Nobly, he retreated. Whatever you might hear, he did this of his own accord.
Director Reubell has gone mad with fear. His delirium recalled to my mind an ancient Oriental proverb: that one should not confuse the sound of the beating of one’s heart with the hooves of approaching horses. It is the beating of my own heart that causes me pain. I begin to see that my life has been spent not as a conquering knight, but as a rather pathetic courtier, sitting, ever hopeful, in the antechamber to the boudoir of the Goddess of Love. In all my groping encounters, was it not simply Love I sought? (I recall a little lecture from you, my friend, to this effect.) And yet, having at last been blessed, I submitted not to the light, but to the darkness within.
I hear the hooves of approaching horses. By the time you receive this, it will all be over. It is said that the guilty are victorious. If so, I need not fear.
Père Barras
July 23, Fontainebleau
Dear Rose,
Imagine General Hoche behaving in such a shameful way! He had nine
thousand soldiers quartered at La Ferte-Alais and he as much as admitted that he was going to take over by force. And to think that our Eugène served on his staff.
Your godmother, Aunt Désirée
Note—I saw Marie-Adélaïde d’Antigny this morning when I stopped by with the money for her education and keep.
*
She has just turned eleven, a pretty little thing. I almost wept to see her—she looks just like Alexandre! Please don’t forget to send money.
July 27, La Chaumière
Darling,
Lazare was forced to leave Paris under a cloud of suspicion, accused of being a traitor. I am sick with apprehension. Barras refuses to talk about it. If you can shed any light on this mystery, please let me know.
Your loving and very dearest friend, Thérèse
Wetzlar
Rose,
Forgive me for writing. I have a courier I can trust—otherwise, I would not compromise you in this fashion.
You will have accounts of my disgrace in the journals. I beg you to believe me when I say I did not behave dishonourably. Although clear in conscience, I carry the burden of shame. It is not a mantle I wear willingly. Assure your son that I honoured my vows to the Republic.
Should anything happen to me, please, I beg you, help my wife and child.
I love you still.
Burn this letter.
Your soldier, always, Lazare
[Undated]
Oh, Lazare, Lazarro…
August 4.
Something happened in Paris—but what? Today, when Bonaparte was meeting with the Austrian delegates, I went through the journals in his office. Apparently, Lazare was named Minister of War, and then there was an outcry due to his youth and he resigned. And then his troops were discovered close to Paris, within a forbidden zone. (From what I can make out, the constitution forbids troops within twelve leagues of the building in which the Legislative Councils meet.) And then he was publicly accused of being a traitor to the Republic.
I cannot make sense of this. There is no greater patriot than Lazare, no man more honourable. It sickens me to think of him publicly reviled, branded with the one word he most deeply loathed:
traitor.
September 8—Passariano.
*
We’ve arrived in Passariano, at last. We are staying in the palace of the last doge of Venice. The courtyard is the size of a military field and the palace itself is huge, ostentatious, ornate. I wander from golden room to golden room, watched by the servants. A fraud, they judge us, Republican imposters.
We won’t be here long, I hope.
September 10.
Mail from Paris. Trouble again. I’m even more confused than before.
18 Fructidor, Luxembourg Palace, Paris
Chère amie,
It is over; I am alive. So, it would seem, is the Republic.
At dawn I ordered the alarm gun fired. Over sixty Royalist deputies have been arrested. Soon they will all be deported. So be it, the Republic has been saved.
Again.
Again and again.
Directors Carnot and Barthélemy escaped—to Switzerland, it is suspected.
*
My secretary, Botot, is on his way to Italy with instructions for Bonaparte. Please keep me informed.
You are right to suggest that we communicate in cipher. Next time.
Père Barras, Director—still
Note—Please disregard my last letter. I was, as they say, “in the cups.” I vaguely recall writing something about horses.
September 9, Fontainebleau
Dear Rose,
Our government has arrested itself—and just when I was preparing for our move to Saint-Germain. I had to tell the carters to return the following week—at my expense, alas. But there was no way we could travel safely with the roads so agitated. Soldiers were everywhere, cart wheels rumbling over the cobblestones, dragging cannon. Almost two hundred of our elected—yes, elected!—representatives have been taken away in iron cages like wild beasts. Even that lovely General Pichegru, President of the Five Hundred.
**
Even two Directors! And just because they would not keep Décadi? The King was more just.
Your godmother Aunt Désirée
[Undated]
“Excellent, the Royalists have been kicked out,” Bonaparte said, throwing down the
Moniteur.
“
Now
Austria will negotiate.”
September 20.
A surprising announcement from Bonaparte. Shortly after two he came into my suite of rooms, sat down across from me. “You’ve been saying you’d like to see Venice,” he said.
I looked up from my embroidery. “We’re going to Venice?” I was astonished he would even consider it. Ever since the Venetians had risen up against French soldiers, massacring them in their hospital beds, Bonaparte had conceived a burning hatred for them. An effeminate, treacherous race! he would rant. A city of scoundrels!
He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “No,
you’re
going.”
And then he explained: the Venetian government, anxious about their fate in the negotiations, had invited him to visit Venice in order to prove their loyalty to the French Republic. He scoffed. “Stinking liars. Of course I won’t go, but refusing outright would complicate things. So I’m sending you in my stead.”
“But Bonaparte…” I paused, trying to take in what he was saying. “This is a job for a diplomat. I can’t—”
“I’ll tell my secretary to make all the arrangements,” he said, standing. “You’ll require a gown, something suitably impressive.” He hesitated for a moment. “Three hundred francs? Four hundred should do it. Don’t worry, the Army of Italy will pay.”
“What has happened?” Lisette exclaimed, finding me in the wardrobe, gowns and shawls everywhere. It looked like a field of war.
“I’ve just learned I’m to go to Venice—”
“That’s wonderful!”
“—on a
diplomatic
mission.” I groaned. She looked at me with a blank expression. “And the problem is, I’m going to have to dress the part—but in a traditional style.”
“So, you’ll get gowns made?”
I sighed. Five hundred francs for each gown, three hundred for a cape, one hundred and fifty for hoops, six hundred…
Bonaparte insists that I will look sufficiently elegant in a four-hundred-franc gown. As if one gown would suffice! I’m to be fêted day and night for three days in only one ensemble? “My mother wears one gown for weeks at a time,” Bonaparte pointed out. Wisely, I held my tongue.
Venice!
Coming to Venice has been like falling into a deliciously sensual dream. Everything conspires to make one feel that one is not on this earth, but in some watery magical realm.
My welcome has been overwhelming. A “parade”—in boats!—down the Grand Canal, the citizens hanging from the windows waving banners, showering me with flowers. I’m overwhelmed. And a bit ill, I confess, from so much rich food.
September 24.
I have returned to Passariano, to the land of Reality. At my suggestion, the President of the Venetian Republic returned with me in order to press the case for Venice. I regret it now, for Bonaparte was cold, unwelcoming. At dinner, I raised a glass in toast to Venice, spoke warmly of the Venetians, the Revolutionary zeal I saw in the citizens of this newly formed Republic. There was no warmth in Bonaparte’s response.
“Murderer,” he cursed as the Venetian President’s carriage pulled away this morning.
I feel sad and defeated. A diplomat I am not. My heart is too easily engaged.
September 29.
I’ve been busy with official duties. Following my “diplomatic” mission to Venice, I’ve been called upon to write to the office of the Emperor of Austria, petitioning for the release of French prisoners. (I find these new duties hard to believe myself.) Now, if only I could do something to push the negotiations along. They’re proceeding so slowly, and not at all
helped, I suspect, by Bonaparte’s ill humour. He’s not an easy man to live with, and he becomes even more difficult when things are not going his way. “Je le veux!” is his favourite expression. I will it!
September 30.
Barras’s secretary arrived covered with dust. “I’m too old to travel,” Botot said, using his hat plume to brush himself off. “I had no idea the roads would be so rough.”
“Did you have trouble from bandits?”
“My valet sent them scurrying.” A smug smile.
“Bonaparte is in Udine this afternoon at the headquarters of the Austrian delegation,” I told him. The meetings alternate. One day Bonaparte goes to Udine, the next day the Austrians come to Passariano. “He has been looking forward to your arrival.” A lie. Bonaparte is convinced that Barras’s secretary was being sent to spy on him.
Lisette came skipping down the wide stone steps, her skirts billowing out behind her. “A visitor from Paris! Is there news? Mail?” She came to an abrupt stop in front of us, flushed.
I smiled at her youthful exuberance. “First we must offer our guest refreshment, Lisette—and
then
we’ll attack him for news.”