Wednesday, December 23, 1795.
General Buonaparte called for me at nine. He was nearly an hour late, and a bit dishevelled, his sash ill-fitting. “I was in a meeting.” He did not apologize. He stood in the parlour before the fire cracking his knuckles. He took out his timepiece. “The curtain rises in a few minutes.” He leapt for the door. I followed after, bewildered and somewhat offended.
His coach is new, a garish yellow with gold trim, very showy, in bad taste. Inside was no different—the seats were covered in gold brocade, the shades tasselled with pink silk.
We took off at a terrific pace, the coach careening over the bumps and around the corners at a frightful speed. I was momentarily overcome by paralysis. Terror had rendered me speechless. I gripped the sides to steady myself. Finally I summoned the strength to cry out, “Stop!”
General Buonaparte signalled his driver and the coach came to a sudden halt. I fell forward onto the facing seat. I began to laugh.
“We are late.” He pulled out his timepiece again. “What is it you want?”
I could not speak for the laughter that had gripped me. Tears ran down my cheeks. Buonaparte regarded me with a puzzled expression. “Too fast?”
I burst into laughter again, nodded through my tears.
Hesitantly, he smiled, a bit unsure. He signalled the driver to go forward again, this time at a more civilized pace. By degrees my laughter came under control. I took several deep breaths. An evening with General Buonaparte—it was not as I had imagined.
It was an enjoyable performance, I thought, yet on the way home General Buonaparte expressed discontent. “The French can’t sing, their music has no melody. It grates on the ear. You sing for me.”
“Here?” We were at the intersection of Rue de Richelieu and Rue Neuve des Petits Champs.
“This is the trouble with the French. They think they cannot sing anywhere, at any time.” He launched into an aria I was unfamiliar with. A chimney-sweep turned to stare. “Now you,” he commanded.
“I am not a singer.”
“Yet you have a lovely speaking voice.”
He would not be refused. Quietly, I sang a short refrain from Mozart.
He regarded me seriously. “Not bad. What’s your name?”
“You know my name.”
“Your full name.”
“Marie-Josephe-Rose.”
“Joseph is your father’s name?”
“Was.”
“Was he a good man?”
I smiled. Hardly. “A very good man.”
“Very well, I shall call you Josephine, after the heroine in Le Sourd. Have you seen it?”
“My name is Rose.”
“You are mistaken.”
December 26.
“Why do you insist on calling me Josephine?” Buonaparte and I had just come from Barras’s salon and were on our way to the theatre, to a performance of a work by Molière.
“Do you not find it an attractive name?”
“I am told this is your way with a woman. First you ask her to sing, then you give her a new name.”
“You have been talking to your friend Thérèse,” he said, disgruntled.
“You can keep no secrets from me, Buonaparte.”
December 29.
“What is it you do all the time?” Thérèse demanded. “You were almost an hour yesterday in the garden.”
“We just talk.” It was true—driving in the Bois de Boulogne, walking along the quay, sitting in my garden, or in his.
“Just talk? Whatever about?”
Music, science, religion … there was little that did not interest him, little that escaped his notice.
“You know what people are saying, that he is mad for you.”
“We are friends.”
“No doubt,” Thérèse said, smiling capriciously.
December 30.
It was approaching noon when Thérèse’s red coach pulled into my courtyard. “Maybe you shouldn’t come to La Chaumière tonight,” she said, letting down the glass.
“But I must—it’s arranged. Buonaparte is coming for me at nine.”
“Lazare is back. He will be there tonight.”
Lazare?
“I thought you should be warned.”
Buonaparte and I arrived at La Chaumière shortly before ten. I was relieved that Lazare was not yet there. Even so, I could not be at my ease.
It wasn’t until midnight that Lazare arrived, in uniform, in the company of several aides. He saw me and turned away. I took Buonaparte’s arm and asked if we might go into the garden for a moment.
“But it’s freezing.”
“Only for a little air.”
After a few moments I was able to compose myself. I had to address Lazare, I knew, had to find the courage to address him. Upon returning to the drawing room, Buonaparte was accosted by Madame de Crény and Fortunée Hamelin, demanding that he read their palms, a magical art for which he claimed to have some talent.
Lazare was standing nearby, by the fire, watching. “How good to see you in Paris,” I said, congratulating him on his recent promotion. He regarded me with cold dignity—an expression so chilling I was relieved when Buonaparte joined us.
“And you, General Hoche?” Buonaparte demanded. Lazare put forth his hand. Buonaparte examined it and grinned. “General, you will die young—and in your bed,” he said.*
“Alexandre the Great died in his bed, did he not?” I took Buonaparte’s arm. “I believe Thérèse wants us in the game room,” I said, pulling him away. “That was unnecessary,” I hissed.
Buonaparte looked at me. “Do you think me blind?”
I pulled my shawl around my shoulders. “Take me home, Buonaparte,” I told him. “I feel quite ill.”
It seemed a very long ride back to Chantereine. Buonaparte and I sat silently. “How are you feeling?” he asked as we turned onto Rue Mont-Martre.
“I lied about being unwell,” I said.
“I was curious to see how far you would take the charade.”
“That’s not kind.”
“I never said I was a kind man.” He paused. “You have an attachment for General Hoche.”
I arranged the fur coverlet about my knees. I was thankful for the dark. “I knew him in prison.”
“And now?”
“And now General Hoche has a family of his own. Would you care to come in?” I asked as we pulled into my courtyard.
“Would you care to have me?”
I thought for a moment. “Yes,” I said. I did not speak untruly. I felt overwhelmed by a feeling of sadness, a feeling that I was too much alone in this life. The cold look in Lazare’s eyes had disturbed me in a way no words ever could.
Buonaparte stayed for over an hour. I drank several glasses of Chambertin. Before he left he said, “I would like permission to kiss you.” It seemed a harmless request.
His touch was tentative, unsure, and then urgent. I pulled away. Hewalked around the room at a vigorous pace.
“Buonaparte?” His manner alarmed me.
Apparently he did not hear, for he did not answer. Then he smiled, a curious smile, I thought, as if he held a great secret. He kissed my hand and was gone.
January 7, 1796.
“Are you lovers?” Thérèse demanded, pulling a robe on over her head. She was trying on a variety of ensembles. In two weeks there is going to be a feast at the Luxembourg Palace in honour of the third anniversary of the death of the King and Thérèse was planning her toilette. Robes, petticoats and shawls were strewn all about the room.
“Not in the sense you mean.” I held up a shawl for her to consider, a luxurious white lace Barras had given her.
“What other sense is there?” She laughed.
“He intrigues me.” General Napoleone Buonaparte was like a tropical day—at one moment exuberant, at the next quiet and moody. He did not inspire respect; rather, he commanded it. I never knew what to expect of him.
“Barras is intent on you marrying him,” Thérèse said.
“I don’t belong to Barras.”
“We all belong to Director Barras, my dear.” She fastened the pearl buttons on her sleeve. “So what would you answer if Buonaparte proposed?”
I sighed, sat down. “Marry Buonaparte?”
“I think our friend the Director is right. I think you should consider. How old is Buonaparte—twenty-six? Remember what Lenormand predicted—that you would marry a brilliant military man, someone younger than you?”
“Hortense weeps at even the thought of me getting married again,” I said.
“Has she even met Buonaparte? Why not bring her to the fête at the Palace? She is almost thirteen—it’s time she started coming out into society.”
Saturday, January 9.
At first Hortense was thrilled at the news that we were going to a formal dinner, especially when I showed her the dress Lannoy was making for her.
“It’s at the Palace,” I said, thinking she would be impressed.
“The Luxembourg?”
I nodded. “Director Barras is hosting it.”
“We’re going to a reception given by Director Barras?” She had a scornful expression on her face. “But, Maman, it was men like him who murdered father!”
“Where did you hear such a thing!” Ever since Hortense had started school, she’d begun to have “notions.” I’d intended to talk to Madame Campan about it, but withheld, sensing that it was possibly Madame Campan who was the cause. “Were it not for the help of Director Barras, we would never have succeeded in getting back your father’s properties,” I lectured her. “You owe it to be kind to a man who has done so much to help us.”
Finally, she relented; she would go. “But I refuse to speak to criminals and rogues. After all, I’m a Royalist.”
I slapped her. We both burst into tears.
January 21, midnight.
I’m exhausted. The gala dinner celebration at the Luxembourg Palace was a tremendous success, but it was hardly enjoyable for me. Buonaparte was particularly intense, following my every move. He ate quickly, often with his hands. Hortense sat between us, sullenly refusing to speak.
All the way home Hortense was silent. At last, in bedclothes, she cried out, sobbing, “If you marry that horrid little man, I will never speak to you again!”
I took her in my arms. “I won’t,” I told her. “I promise.”
I promise.