‘Here is our liberator; the heavens have sent him!’ people greeted Bonaparte when he came ashore. Others hailed him as their ‘saviour’, and some wanted to make him king. At Aix, which he reached the following day, crowds gathered outside his hotel and the municipal authorities called on him as though he were a dignitary on official business. Along the road peasants cheered and even carried torches beside his coach at night to safeguard him from the brigands with whom the region was infested – which did not prevent his baggage being stolen by what his Mameluke Roustam termed ‘French Arabs’.1
At his next stop, Avignon, ‘word suddenly got around with extraordinary speed that General Bonaparte had arrived from Egypt and would be entering the city in a few hours’, recorded the young artillery lieutenant Jean-François Boulart. ‘In a flash the whole city was in motion, the troops stood to and marched out beyond the city walls on the road along which the hero of Italy and Egypt would come. The crowd was immense. At the sight of the great man the enthusiasm reached its peak, the air resounded with acclamations and with shouts of Vive Bonaparte! and that crowd and those shouts accompanied him all the way to the hotel in which he stopped. It was an electrifying spectacle. As soon as he reached it, he received the authorities and the officers; it was the first time I saw this prodigious being. I contemplated him with a sort of voracity, I was in a state of ecstasy. […] From that moment, we looked on him as being called to save France from the crisis into which the pitiful government of the Directory and the reverses suffered by our armies had precipitated it.’ Boulart had no doubt that Fate had brought Bonaparte back.2
Similar scenes greeted him at Valence, where his erstwhile landlady came to see him and received the present of a cashmere shawl. When he reached Lyon on 13 October he provoked enthusiasm which turned into a civic festival, with illuminations and fireworks, and a play glorifying his deeds was staged. Enthusiastic crowds obliged him to show himself on the balcony of his hotel time after time. Again, the city dignitaries and prominent citizens called on him to pay their respects as they might to a king on his progress, and the pattern was repeated at every stop.3
The news of his advent preceded him in Paris, eliciting the same reactions. ‘It is difficult to give an idea of the universal enthusiasm produced by his return,’ recalled Amable de Barante, then a student at the École Polytechnique. ‘Without knowing what he would want to do, without attempting to foresee what would happen, everyone, of every class, had the conviction that he would not tarry to put an end to the agony in which France was expiring … People embraced in the street, people rushed to meet him, people longed to see him.’ The nineteen-year-old poet Pierre-Jean de Béranger was in a reading room when he heard the news, and he and his fellows leapt to their feet as one man with shouts of joy. Workers in the cafés of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine hailed the return of ‘our father, our saviour, Bonaparte’, while according to a popular verse heard in the streets of the capital, ‘The gods, who are friends of this hero, have brought him to our shores.’4
Accounts of these events bristle with the words ‘fortune’, ‘providence’ and ‘destiny’, and in many Bonaparte is described and greeted as a ‘saviour’. ‘Nations cannot escape their destiny,’ wrote Mathieu Molé, who, fearing another lurch to the left, was preparing to emigrate when he heard the news of Bonaparte’s return. He could not repress a feeling that the French nation was being guided by instinct to submit to the man Providence had intended.5
Years of often bloody political upheaval and intermittent war, punctuated by economic crises and accompanied by fiscal chaos, had obscured the benefits of the Revolution and left the nation deeply dissatisfied. The Directory had introduced a modicum of stability and did achieve some positive results, but it was mired in corruption and had a propensity for war. While Bonaparte was in Egypt, it had responded to the new coalition stacking up against France by invading Holland, Switzerland and Naples, setting up new republics which would involve France in further conflict, and by that summer of 1799 its armies were in retreat.
Governments are rarely judged in rational terms, and their popularity is subject to a variety of emotional responses. The Directory, along with the two representative chambers which appointed it, figured in the public imagination as a collection of ineffectual lawyers in togas bandying slogans while pursuing their own interests, venal as well as political. It was despised by the majority across the political spectrum as a pseudo-revolutionary oligarchy, ‘a provisional tyranny’ too weak to guarantee stability and rule effectively, too corrupt to engage the support of society. Yet nothing could be done to reform it, as the constitution could not be altered before nine years had elapsed.6
The situation cried out for a radical solution. ‘The state of our country was such that the entire French nation was prepared to give itself to whoever could save them at the same time from the foreign menace and the tyranny of their own government,’ according to the royalist Louis d’Andigné. Recent experience had shown that, in the words of one young man, ‘nothing could be undertaken or accomplished except by a general and with military force’. That was also the view of the man currently preparing a coup to overthrow the Directory (of which he was a member) and change the constitution, the former priest Émmanuel-Joseph Sieyès. He made no bones about the fact that in order to do so he needed ‘a sabre’. But he failed to appreciate that people no longer wanted some politician such as him supported by a general, they wanted the general himself. As another nineteen-year-old put it: ‘The time had come for a dictatorship, and everything pointed to the dictator.’7
There were other generals on hand, such as Bernadotte, Moreau, Augereau and Jourdan. Bonaparte himself would later say that if it had not been him it would have been another. That is certainly true up to a point, but that ‘other’ would have served his purpose and been sooner or later hung out to dry. French society was thirsting for something more. The intellectual, moral and emotional conditioning of the past half-century had given rise to new beliefs and mythologies, and to illusory expectations of life and therefore of politics, which had themselves entered a new sphere with the Revolution. The subliminal emotions and expectations traditionally focused on the person of the monarch as the anointed representative of God on earth could, up to a point, be redirected onto abstract concepts such as the Nation and the Republic, which were anthropomorphised in art and ritual for the purpose. But they did not easily settle on a group of officials, however epically they were decked out in their togas and plumed hats. Those emotions and expectations required a cynosure more numinous, a figure sanctioned by some substitute for God, by Fate, Providence, Fortune or whatever other euphemism the theologically challenged intellectuals of the time preferred.
Philosophers had, over the centuries, addressed the question of what differentiated some men from the herd, either by seeking a physical explanation or a celestial inspiration of some sort. In the eighteenth century it became customary to label outstanding individuals as ‘men of genius’ – Shakespeare, Descartes and Newton were among those thus branded. And while the idea of equality among men eroded respect for traditional aristocracy, a new aristocracy of genius emerged to replace it – the figure of the ‘genius’ sometimes even replaced the king on decks of cards. The concurrent withdrawal of God and the saints from the public imagination made room for the genius as a kind of lay saint, even a kind of god. For the Swiss philosopher Johann Caspar Lavater, a man who could achieve exceptional things was ‘a being of a higher kind’, a ‘counterpart of the divine’, a ‘human god’. According to the philosopher Immanuel Kant, genius was something inexplicable bestowed on men by nature. It was not even necessary to be dead to be labelled one. Benjamin Franklin, who had managed to tame the celestial fury of lightning, was widely acclaimed as a saint, and a cult developed around him that included the worship of relics. Rousseau was often referred to as ‘divine’, and during the French Revolution the former church of Sainte-Geneviève was turned into a Pantheon, a sacred space in which he, Voltaire and others were laid to rest and venerated as saints. The armed struggle in defence of the Revolution had raised military valour to the highest status among virtues. The Paris veterans’ hospice the Invalides was renamed the Temple of Mars.8
Bonaparte’s gift for self-promotion had over the past four years fashioned the image of him as someone out of the ordinary, courageous, wise, modest, but also decisive and above all successful. In excess of 500 distinct images had been produced to cover his exploits during the Italian campaign which represented him not just as a hero but also as the embodiment and symbol of the army, which in the revolutionary imagination was equated with the nation itself. The Egyptian episode had added new dimensions. In the absence of hard facts due to the difficulties of communication, journalists gave free rein to their fantasy, with the result that the public was regaled with visionary depictions of victory and dominion. Prints showed Bonaparte bestowing the benefits of French culture on exotic-looking natives, representing him as a man of peace and an administrator creating a new colony for France, and one even depicting him being greeted in India by Tippu Sahib.9
Over this hovered a more subtle suggestion that his triumphs, which were described by himself as well as others as ‘prodigious’, ‘fabulous’, even ‘miraculous’, were the consequence of his being beloved of the gods, or Providence, Fortune or Fate. This explained his seeming invulnerability to bullets and plague alike. The impression conveyed was by no means restricted to revolution-weary France: Shelley, Byron, Beethoven, Coleridge, Blake, Goethe and countless other intellectuals all over Europe saw in Bonaparte a superhuman element which excited their imagination, if only for a time. Young people all over the Continent and even across the Atlantic, including aristocrats firmly wedded to monarchist principles, felt the appeal and in various degrees sought to emulate his example. It is not difficult to see why a despondent society such as France in the autumn of 1799 saw in him a longed-for messiah.
Nor were subliminal factors the only ones at play. The fulsome report of his victory at Aboukir (which conveniently overshadowed the naval disaster in the bay of the same name) had reached Paris after a tortuous journey only a few days before Bonaparte’s arrival in France. As it happened, the fortunes of war had turned: General Brune had seen off the British and Russian forces in the Netherlands, and Masséna had defeated the Russians in Switzerland. But it was news of Aboukir that gave people the impression that France was victorious once more, and when five days later it became known in Paris that its victor had come to save the Republic, it produced what the old revolutionary Antoine-Claire Thibaudeau described as ‘an electric commotion’. He was at the theatre when it was announced, in mid-performance, and while the actors resumed after the cheering had died down, the audience paid them no heed, arguing over the possible implications: ‘every face and every conversation reflected only the hope of salvation and the presentiment of happiness’.10
Josephine heard the news of his landing on 13 October, while dining at the Luxembourg Palace with the president of the Directory, Louis-Jérôme Gohier, an admirer of hers hostile to Bonaparte. She had not received her son’s letter from Cairo warning her of Bonaparte’s fury at having been told the full extent of her infidelities, as it had been intercepted by the Royal Navy (and published, to general amusement, in the London press). She did know that his brothers were out to discredit her, so she was determined to get to him before they did. She set off at once, with her daughter Hortense, of whom Bonaparte was particularly fond, meaning to meet up with him along the way. Unfortunately for her, he had decided against taking the main road.
By the time he reached Lyon, he had all the evidence he needed regarding his popularity. Not wishing to enter Paris with the same éclat as the other cities along his way lest it annoy the Directors, and wishing to give himself time to take stock, he had taken a route through Nevers and Montargis. He reached the capital at six o’clock on the morning of 16 October, and was able to go without being spotted straight to the rue de la Victoire, where he no doubt meant to confront Josephine and tell her of his intention to divorce her.
He found the house empty, except for his mother, who, although she had recently shown some consideration for Josephine, would not have tried to dissuade him. As nobody else knew of his presence in town, Bonaparte had most of the day to brood on the faithlessness of his wife – and indeed on the debts she would have run up, for the house had been redecorated in neo-classical style with Egyptian motifs. The tented bedroom was designed to represent the rigours of campaigning, with what resembled a camp bed and drums as seats. The furniture, in supposedly Roman style, was by the foremost Parisian ébéniste, Georges Jacob, and the rooms were adorned with antiquities Josephine had picked up in or been sent from Italy.
In the afternoon he received a visit from the Directory’s executive officer and effective head of police for the department of the Seine, Pierre-François Réal, who had got wind of his arrival. He found the general angry and depressed, railing at the inconstancy of women and comparing his homecoming to that of the returning heroes of the Trojan war. Réal, who was close to Barras and Josephine, did what he could to calm Bonaparte, warning him that a divorce would do his image no good and might make him look ridiculous.11
Bonaparte knew the Directory would be less than enthusiastic about his return. He had deserted an army in the field and broken the law on quarantine, a serious offence. He did not know that, faced with the threat of war closer to home, they had in fact sent a despatch on 26 May ordering him to return to France with his army, as this had never reached him. They had subsequently repeated these orders, though how he was to transport an army without a fleet they did not say. From Aix, where he had intercepted this second order, he wrote of his concern for the Republic and declared his readiness to serve it in any way he could.12
That evening he went to the Luxembourg to see Gohier, who received him moderately well, from which Bonaparte could deduce that while his desertion of the army had given the Directors a golden opportunity to court-martial and discredit him (which some of them did consider), they felt powerless in the face of public opinion. This gave him confidence when he confronted them as a body the following morning.
His appearance expressed an attitude they had not been prepared for: he wore an olive-green civilian frock-coat and a broad-brimmed hat, and, attached by silk straps, an Oriental scimitar. The Directors received him in open session, and when he arrived he found members of the public and officers present. Among the sentries he recognised veterans of his Italian campaign and shook their hands, bringing tears to their eyes. He addressed the Directors ‘like a man who had come rather to demand an explanation of their conduct rather than to justify his own’, according to one witness. He assured them that he would never draw his sword except in defence of the Republic, and deflected their questions about the army in Egypt by asking his own about the state of France. Gohier embraced him, as was customary, admitting that the accolade ‘was neither given nor received very fraternally’.13
Later that day he had an interview with his brother Lucien. Lucien had until now had little time for Bonaparte, whom he did not know well or rate highly. He was intelligent, energetic and unscrupulous in pursuit of his own aims, though liable to take unbending moral stands when it suited him. He was a natural politician and a good orator. Having been elected, like Joseph, to the Assembly of the Five Hundred, he was now angling to be chosen as its president. Whatever they thought of their brother and he of them, they were family, and their Corsican upbringing would not let them forget that.
Joseph’s political skills were not on a par with Lucien’s. He had enriched himself, acquiring a residence in Paris and an estate at Mortefontaine, and fancied himself as a literary figure, publishing a fatuous novel and surrounding himself with writers. In the interests of enlisting the support of a prominent former Jacobin, he had arranged the marriage of his sister-in-law Désirée to General Bernadotte. Bonaparte’s brother-in-law General Leclerc had also set himself up, with a residence in town and a château in the country, and had sent Paulette, now styling herself Pauline, to Madame Campan’s school to learn to read and write, not to mention some manners. Of the whole family, only Louis, who had returned from Egypt earlier, had failed to find a place for himself and worried about how Bonaparte was faring there.14
Both Joseph and Lucien wanted Bonaparte to divorce Josephine, and for a couple of days it looked as though they would succeed. According to Barras, Bonaparte called on him in despair and announced that he intended to divorce her. Barras claims to have put him off, saying he would make himself ridiculous, that only lower-class people were offended by their spouses’ faithlessness, and that she might yet prove useful to him. Collot records giving him similar advice. ‘No! I have made up my mind; she will never set foot in my house again,’ Bonaparte retorted. ‘I don’t care what people will say.’ Collot observed that his anger betrayed the strength of his feelings for her, and that he would soon give way. ‘Me forgive her? Never! … You know me well! … If I were not firmly resolved, I would tear out my heart and throw it on the fire.’15
Having realised her error, Josephine had turned round and raced back to Paris, arriving at the rue de la Victoire on 18 October. Bonaparte shut himself away and refused to admit her, but she would not go away, weeping and professing her love, begging his forgiveness. She deployed Hortense and Eugène to plead her cause, and after a few hours he opened the door and let her in. However much he had been wounded in his self-esteem by her behaviour, he was still in love with her, and he needed her. She could give him the solace and the domestic warmth he craved, she was a clever, resourceful woman whose advice he had come to value, and she provided the social confidence he was keenly aware of lacking. At a more practical level, Josephine knew a great many people and had access to circles Bonaparte needed to cultivate. Finally, he had to accept that as various people had pointed out, a public domestic row and a divorce would not serve the image of the man who had come to save France.16
He moved cautiously, keeping to his pose of the self-effacing warrior at rest. He dressed in civilian clothes, rarely went out, avoided public appearances and assemblies, and refused to receive official delegations, civic or military. He visited wounded veterans at the Invalides and spent time with his friends at the Institute. At one session, he gave a lecture on the Suez Canal.
Yet all the while he was sounding out people across the political spectrum. After his first meeting with the Directory, he called on the minister of justice Jean-Jacques Cambacérès, who confirmed that the political class was exasperated with the state of affairs and that there was widespread desire for change. But there was considerable divergence of expectation as to what kind of change, and what Bonaparte needed to ascertain was which faction was the strongest.17
The house in the rue de la Victoire was the scene of constant comings and goings. Among the first to call was Talleyrand, who had been dismissed from the ministry of foreign relations and hungered for power. He was followed by Pierre-Louis Roederer, editor of the Journal de Paris, whose endorsement would be crucial. Bonaparte’s firm supporter Regnaud de Saint-Jean d’Angély was on hand to furnish the necessary propaganda. Other callers included Talleyrand’s friend Hugues Maret, a minor diplomat who now became Bonaparte’s secretary. On 21 October Talleyrand and Roederer brought Admiral Eustache Bruix, with whom they had dined, judging him a potential ally. Others hovered on the sidelines. One such was the police minister Joseph Fouché, a self-effacing man whose cadaverous features sat well with his past as a violent Jacobin, which had earned him the sobriquet of ‘butcher of Lyon’. He had long since enlisted the collaboration of the debt-ridden Josephine by providing her with financial and other assistance.18
On 22 October Bonaparte dined with Gohier and met General Moreau for the first time. The meeting was written up by Roederer in his paper the following day, giving the public the impression that the two generals were on good terms. This was important, since Moreau was universally popular. He had been approached to save France by the Director Sieyès, who was planning a coup to overthrow the government of which he was a member. When his preferred ‘sabre’, General Joubert, had been killed at the battle of Novi that summer, Sieyès had cast around for another, and fixed on Moreau. He had invited him to the Luxembourg to discuss this on the evening of 13 October, and the general entered his office shortly after the Director had heard the news of Bonaparte’s return. When he was told of it, Moreau reportedly interrupted Sieyès with the words, ‘He’s your man; he will carry out your coup d’état far better than I.’ That did not mean he had given up his own ambitions.19
Sieyès had been colluding with Lucien Bonaparte over the past months, but recruiting his brother was not going to be as easy as might appear. Bonaparte did not like Sieyès, considering him a self-important pedant. Sieyès was not popular, and many suspected him of having monarchist leanings; he was hated by the surviving Jacobins. Talleyrand and Roederer believed Bonaparte should ally himself with the other Director who might be prepared to act, Barras. Réal was of the same mind, knowing that Barras would wish to assume a leading role in any event. But Bonaparte remained non-committal.
It had become clear that he was the object of a great deal of wishful thinking. Those who favoured a restoration of the monarchy saw him as the man who could bring it about. The Jacobins were hoping he might be the man to restore the Republic in its more radical guise. Liberal republicans, loosely referred to as ‘Ideologues’, saw him as the strong man who could bring stability and preserve them from both Jacobins and royalists. If he could keep them all thinking that he was their man, he would not arouse the enmity of any party. He had correctly assessed that what offended public opinion was the sense that politics had been taken over by factions which had only their own interests at heart. If he was to engage wider support he must show himself to have nothing to do with any of them. He therefore remained aloof while Talleyrand, Roederer and others prepared the ground.
Sieyès was offended that Bonaparte had not approached him, while Bonaparte felt Sieyès should make the first step. At one point in this stand-off Bonaparte lost his temper in front of a number of witnesses, shouting that it was to him people should come, because it was he who was ‘the glory of the nation’. He nevertheless did call on Sieyès and his fellow Director Roger Ducos on 23 October. Things got off to a sticky start. Bonaparte was offended by the lack of ceremony with which he was received on his arrival at the Luxembourg: the detachment on guard had not saluted him with the appropriate drum-roll, he had been made to wait, and they had not opened both wings of the doors for him. Yet when they got down to business, the three of them agreed that France was not being properly governed, and that something had to be done. The two Directors returned his visit the next day, but that meeting too did not go beyond the exchange of pious wishes.20
Fouché, supported by Josephine, was still advocating an alliance with Barras, but although Bonaparte felt comfortable with him and appreciated his intelligence, Barras was hated by the Jacobins and his reputation was tarnished in the eyes of public opinion, which associated him with the worst excesses of the Directory.
Joseph wanted to bring Bernadotte and Bonaparte together – no easy thing, given not only the ideological differences between them but the lack of mutual esteem or sympathy. On hearing of Bonaparte’s return from Egypt Bernadotte had publicly called for his court-martial. It did not help that he had married Désirée. Joseph organised a party at Mortefontaine to which he invited Lucien, Talleyrand, Roederer, Regnaud and others in order to create an ambience in which the two generals could make their peace. As Bonaparte and Josephine had to share their carriage with Bernadotte and Désirée, whom he had not seen since Marseille, the four-hour drive would hardly have been merry. Discussions between the two generals over the next two days yielded nothing, with Bernadotte hiding behind his Jacobin principles. Although it was evident he would not be able to enlist the support of the Jacobins, Bonaparte could see that with leaders as indecisive as Bernadotte they were unlikely to prove a serious obstacle.21
On the morning of 30 October he went out for a ride with Regnaud, and on the way back his horse stumbled over some rocks in the park, throwing Bonaparte, who lost consciousness. It took several hours to bring him round, but that evening he was back in Paris, dining with Barras, who was still trying to enlist his support. There was something about Barras’ behaviour on this occasion that produced a violent reaction in Bonaparte, who made up his mind to have nothing more to do with his former protector. The next morning Barras called, seemingly in apologetic mood, and he returned the following day, 1 November, declaring that he was prepared to back him. But Bonaparte brushed him off, saying that he was not contemplating taking action as he was too tired and ill after his Egyptian exertions and would be good for nothing for at least three months. That evening he met Sieyès at Lucien’s lodgings.
Sieyès frankly declared that he meant to take power in order to introduce a new constitution, and needed a general to provide backing and keep the populace at bay. Bonaparte made a show of democratic convictions, stating that he would never support anything that had not been ‘freely discussed and approved by a properly conducted universal vote’. Sieyès had no option but to accept Bonaparte’s terms, although he was probably beginning to see that he himself would be sidelined. ‘I wish to march with General Bonaparte,’ he told Joseph, ‘because, of all the military men he is the most civilian.’22
Bonaparte was now approached by General Jourdan, who had been delegated by a group of Jacobins to propose that if he were to join them in overthrowing the government they would make him head of the executive power, provided it was a strictly republican one. He made a show of gratitude and pretended to give the proposal his consideration.23
It was by now common knowledge in Paris that something was afoot, and people speculated openly as to what was about to happen, but there was no sign of alarm on the part of the authorities. The Directors were in the dark, as Fouché kept his police reports bland. At the same time, each of them was either planning something himself, like Sieyès and Roger Ducos, contemplating joining in, like Barras, or had at least been sounded out, like Gohier and his colleague Moulin. But their lack of unity precluded them from taking any action. With so many people looking over their shoulders in what remained a fluid situation in which nobody trusted anyone else, danger lurked everywhere. It was not so much the wish to be on the winning side as the fear of finding themselves on the losing one that made people dangerous.24
Bonaparte called on Talleyrand late one night to discuss the action to be taken. At one point they heard a carriage and a troop of horse trotting down the street come to a halt outside the door. There was a sound of voices and some commotion. Fearing they were about to be arrested, Talleyrand blew out the candles and crept to the window. It turned out that a carriage carrying the evening’s takings of one of the more popular gaming houses of Paris, which always had an escort of cavalry, had suffered a broken wheel. Talleyrand and Bonaparte laughed, but their fear was not groundless, and tension mounted in the capital. One evening Bonaparte sought relief by listening with Fouché to a recital of the Odes of Ossian set to music.25
On 6 November the two chambers hosted a banquet for 750 in honour of Bonaparte and Moreau in the Temple of Victory, formerly the church of Saint-Sulpice. The building was decked out with tapestries and captured standards, and trestle tables had been set up in the shape of a horseshoe, but it was cold, with the autumn damp filling the vast unheated church. When Bonaparte arrived accompanied by his staff, the crowd outside cheered ‘Vive Bonaparte! La paix! La paix!’ He duly drank the toasts proposed, from a bottle he had brought himself along with a loaf of bread, the only food he touched. He had also taken the precaution of surrounding himself with a ring of faithful aides. ‘I have never seen a more silent assembly with less trust and gaiety among the company,’ noted Lavalette. A newspaper report observed that the only conversation was made by musical instruments. Bonaparte left while most of the guests were only halfway through their dinner.26
Later that evening he had a long talk with Sieyès about a course of action. They both wished to stick as closely as possible to legality and to avoid the need for military intervention, other than to keep the peace and prevent a possible assault on the assemblies by a mob called out by the Jacobins. The plan was straightforward: a majority if not all of the Directors would resign, creating a vacuum of power which would force the two assemblies to step in, declare that the government had ceased to exist, and sanction the introduction of a new constitution. Sieyès felt the task of drafting it should go to him – he had been writing the ideal constitution in his head for years. But Bonaparte insisted it be drafted by a committee nominated by the two assemblies and then approved by national plebiscite. This committee, which would also fulfil the role of a provisional government, was to consist of three ‘consuls’: Sieyès, Bonaparte and Roger Ducos.
To ensure that everything went smoothly and to eliminate any possibility of the Tuileries being invaded by a Jacobin mob, it was decided to use the constitutional clause which allowed the two assemblies to transfer from Paris to a place of safety in case of danger. As the presidents of both, Lucien Bonaparte and Louis Lemercier, and the two men in charge of the administration, the inspectors of the assemblies, were in on the plot, there should be no problem in arranging this. The date was provisionally set for 7 November, but Bonaparte would insist on putting it back by two days.
He wanted to make a last attempt to neutralise the Jacobins, and on 7 November he had lunch with General Jourdan at the rue de la Victoire. Jourdan, a principled republican, was probably the only man who could have roused the left to action. After lunch they walked in the garden and Jourdan proposed that Bonaparte join him in a Jacobin coup. Bonaparte told him his faction was too weak, but reassured him about his own republican convictions, and as they parted Jourdan intimated that he would not oppose him. That evening, Bonaparte attended a dinner given by Bernadotte, after which he once more attempted to engage his support, but Bernadotte appears to have thought that he was in a strong position, and that if he kept aloof he would hold the trump card at the decisive moment.27
The next day was devoted to final preparations and the composition of announcements and declarations to be posted on walls and published in the press immediately after the event. There was also the question of securing the necessary funds, and last-minute talks with bankers and men of business bore fruit. That evening there was a final confabulation at which the details of the next day’s action were finalised.
Captain Horace Sébastiani, a fellow Corsican devoted to Bonaparte, was ordered to deploy his dragoons early the next morning before the Tuileries, seat of the two assemblies. Murat was to rally two other cavalry regiments. Bonaparte had notified those officers who had come to pay their respects and whom he had declined to receive on his return from Egypt that he would now be pleased to see them, but that due to pressing circumstances he could only do so at six on the morning of 9 November. They were invited individually, and until they reached his house in the rue de la Victoire in the early-morning dark they would be under the impression that they were to have a private interview with the hero of Italy and Egypt. He had instructed those already in on the plot to convene there at the same time, so when they arrived they would find themselves in a crowd of over fifty high-ranking officers.
Bonaparte went to bed at two in the morning. At the Tuileries the two inspectors of the chambers, Mathieu-Augustin Cornet and Jean-François Baraillon, sat up all night writing out summonses to members of the Council of Elders to come to an emergency meeting at seven o’clock in the morning. They were watched over by the Guard of the Assemblies, whose non-commissioned officers would deliver the messages at six, but only to those members of the assembly deemed reliable. Those who might cause trouble would be left to sleep.