55

“IT IS A COMET, OF COURSE,” Bonaparte snapped as he looked up from his desk, lifting his pen from the paper in front of him. I had come to the Tuileries to receive my allowance, the money he had agreed to give me each year when he divorced me. I knew that he was about to leave once again on campaign, having raised a vast army that included not only Frenchmen but Germans, Poles, Dutch and Italians. It was said to be the largest armed force ever assembled. I wanted to make certain I received my allowance before he left.

After keeping me waiting for more than an hour, Bonaparte had finally had me admitted to his study and wordlessly handed me a bank draft. I thanked him but did not leave right away, despite his glare of impatience. I lingered, fascinated. Since receiving Orgulon’s message I saw my former husband in a new light, as the demon who must be destroyed.

There he sat, in his gilded chair, on a deep padded cushion. I knew why he needed the thick cushion—because he was increasingly troubled with hemorrhoids that gave him much pain. On the wall behind him was an immense portrait of himself as a young man, long locks flowing, sword in hand, fending off a horde of enemies against a dramatic landscape.

Does he really imagine that he still looks like that, I wondered.

Doesn’t he realize how fat he has become, how his stomach sticks out from under his vest? How he slumps, and glowers, and has become as white and pale as a mushroom?

“Why are you still here? Can’t you see how busy I am? I’ve answered your question about the light you’ve been seeing in the sky. It is a well known celestial phenomenon. A comet. Shall I spell the word for you? Fools believe comets foretell disaster. I know better. This one foretells my victory over the Russians.”

“But France is in fact in the midst of disaster,” I argued. “Look at all the people who are out of work, and all the banks that are failing. The newspapers are full of stories about riots and strikes and shortages of food. Why, I’ve got beggars by the score coming to my door at Malmaison.”

It was true. Even at Malmaison, my oasis of peace and safety, the quakes and tremblings of the Paris financial markets could be felt— and their human wreckage encountered. Even I, who did not usually read newspapers or interest myself in the ups and downs of others’ investments—unless of course I was likely to profit from them—could not ignore the stories I was hearing, stories of bands of starving men and women roaming the streets like packs of hungry wolves, stories of suicides, of people turned out of their houses and camping by the roadside in shelters made of old lumber and stones and bricks. My cooks served soup to the poor wretches who came to my door, and I sent food into the nearby village of Rueil to relieve the want there.

Standing where I was, in Bonaparte’s private study, and seeing the inescapable change in him since he divorced me and married Marie Louise, it was hard to escape the conclusion that his marriage had brought him—and France—bad luck. And the comet symbolized it.

“They think I will stop when I have conquered Russia, you know,” Bonaparte said, his mood suddenly shifting, his irritability retreating before a wave of reverie.

“They are wrong. The road to Moscow leads on, over frozen wastes and steppes, and tall high mountains, to the fabled land of India. Do you remember when I went to Egypt?”

“Of course, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“That was meant to be the start of a longer journey. I thought I would conquer the land of the pharaohs with ease, and then lay siege to Constantinople, and then go on to India, and complete my conquest of the world. That dream has not died.”

As he spoke he picked up an exquisitely carved porcelain figure of a young man from the desktop in front of him. He ran his hands over the smooth porcelain absentmindedly.

“Then I was a young commander, with much promise but no fortune. Now I am a rich man, even though my people are in distress. What better use of my wealth than to conquer the rest of the world? Besides, it is the only task left that is great enough to challenge my genius.”

With a snap he severed one of the porcelain figure’s legs and discarded it carelessly on the desk.

“I am writing to Tsar Alexander about this, to caution him. He has declared war on France. But he cannot declare war on my destiny!”

He is mad, I thought. He has taken leave of his senses.

“I am reminding the emperor that the course of human events is inevitable and that most men are mere pygmies. A few of us are giants. I am one of those few. The day of the giants has come.”

With a snap the remaining leg of the porcelain figure came off.

‘And what of the women?”

He shrugged. “Less than pygmies. Flies. Gnats.” He swatted an imaginary insect. “You will see,” he went on. “The world will see. I will wage a holy war against the Slav barbarians, and then conquer the Hindu heathens! I will civilize the globe!”

Waving his arms wildly, he flung the truncated porcelain boy into the fireplace where it smashed. “Now, leave me in peace. I must make my preparations. Soon the spring will be here and there will be grass enough for the horses, and the grand campaign can begin!”

MY FORTY-NINTH BIRTHDAY WAS APPROACHING, and I could not deny that my step had grown slower and my eyesight weaker. I was no longer spry, in fact my knees hurt when I walked around the lake where my black swans floated and I groaned a little each time I got up from a soft cushiony chair. I was not old yet, but I soon would be. How, I wondered, could I find the strength to follow Bonaparte eastward until I encountered the fer-de-lance and destroyed it?

Full of confusion, but concerned to find answers, I sought help from the one man who had always in the past come to my aid: my old friend Scipion du Roure.

I sent Scipion a letter telling him I needed to talk to him urgently and waited for a response. He sent word back that he would come to Malmaison as quickly as he could and in fact he made the journey from his home in Caen in record time.

I was watching for his carriage from my balcony. When it arrived I felt my spirits lift. I had not seen Scipion in several years—not since my divorce in fact. I knew that he had become a widower and was no longer an active naval commander. He had retired to Normandy, where he was still near the sea but within a few days’ journey from the capital.

With some difficulty Scipion alighted from his carriage and began to make his way toward the house, using a cane to support his bad leg, the old war wound from the naval battle off the coast of Cairo evidently plaguing him. I hurried downstairs to greet him and lead him into my private sitting room, where we could talk confidentially.

After hugging each other warmly and exchanging news of family and mutual friends, we began to talk in earnest. I opened my heart to Scipion.

“You may find what I am about to tell you somewhat fantastic,” I began, “but I urge you not to dismiss it, or to look on it as the product of a disordered mind. And remember, I am a child of Martinique, where sorcerers wield much power.”

“I would never dismiss anything that is important to you, Yeyette. And I remember Martinique and its distinctive culture well.” His grey eyes, hooded now and surrounded by wrinkles, looked at me steadily, expectantly.

“Well then, I recently had an important visitor ...” I described my encounter with the dying Orgulon and his message, and told Scipion what I thought it meant. I needed to find the dreaded fer-de-lance, I said, and kill it—and also destroy the demon that sent it. I needed to follow Bonaparte eastward, led by the new white light in the sky. When I finished I sat back and waited to hear what my old friend had to say in response.

He sat in thoughtful silence for a time, then looked over at me.

“What you say is quite fantastic, Yeyette, even preposterous. I cannot embrace it with my mind—but my intuition tells me that you sincerely believe what the old man told you. And as it happens, I believe that there is much evil being loosed in the world, far too much violence and havoc. Our emperor is at the center of it all.

“As you know, Yeyette, I have a son, Jean-Georges, who is an officer in the Rouen Dragoons. He is preparing to join the campaign. I have urged him not to go. In doing so I have abandoned all my old loyalties, my naval oath, even, one might say, my loyalty to France. But the life of my son is more important to me than any of these things, and I do not want to see that life squandered by a maniac who wears the name of emperor!”

I had never seen Scipion speak so vehemently. The words were wrenched from him, he was both angry and anguished.

“My son Eugene is with the army as well, as you know. Bonaparte has put him in command of many men. I do not want his life thrown away either.”

“Then let us work together to save our sons. I will help you, Yeyette. You intend to travel eastward. Very well. I can arrange passage for you by ship as far as Riga—the northern seas will be clear of ice in a few weeks— and from there I can direct you to contacts in Smolensk and towns nearby. Russia is vast, but I will do what I can to ease your way. I will give you names of people you can turn to if you need them. I will forewarn each one. Of course, you will need land transport, horses, money—”

“I have ordered a traveling coach,” I said, interrupting him. “I have the funds Bonaparte allots me, and I intend to sell two of my diamond parures to raise extra funds.”

“Better not to carry much money with you. Carry letters of reference and arrange for bank drafts instead.”

“When I was empress none of that was necessary,” I remarked ruefully.

“But you are not empress any longer. You must be prudent, and careful. Ah, Yeyette, how brave you are!” Scipion smiled and patted my hand. “Think what your Aunt Rosette would say, if she could see you now and find out what you are doing.”

I thought of Aunt Rosette as she had been in my childhood, always wearing her threadbare green gown with the crimson rosettes, their color faded to a dull pink.

“She would faint—if she were still living. She and my mother are both in their graves in the church at Les Trois-Ilets.”

“I’m sorry Yeyette.”

“They lived very comfortably in their old age, on the money I was able to send them. The slave rebellion left the plantation in ruins but mama and Aunt Rosette moved to Fort-Royal and were happy there, once all the turmoil died down.”

“No doubt they thought of themselves as royalty, with you becoming empress.”

“I’m glad mother died before I was divorced and disgraced.”

Scipion and I talked on, through the afternoon and all through dinner. He stayed for several days, helping me plan for the shipboard portion of my trip and advising me about how to prepare for the land portion. He talked with Christian and my tall, strong pseudo-cuirassier Edward Costello, both of whom insisted on going with me on my journey.

Scipion went home to Normandy for a few days, then on to Le Havre to arrange our sea passage, and finally returned to Malmaison to accompany us to the port.

It was a great deal for him to undertake, on such short notice and with a need for secrecy. On his return to Malmaison he looked tired. One evening after dinner I insisted that he try to forget all that was on his mind and stroll with me through the gardens. Though he had to walk haltingly, leaning on his cane, he seemed to enjoy the brief respite from all that preoccupied him. June had come, and many of the flowering plants were in bloom.

“Is that jasmine I smell?” he asked as we passed a bush with a mass of white flowers.

“Yes. I’ve always loved it.”

“You wore jasmine in your hair on the night I first met you, at the ball in Fort-Royal. Do you remember?”

“Did I?” I was being deceitful, for of course I remembered, just as I remembered the pale yellow gown I wore on that night and the new yellow slippers that went with it. I remembered everything, that Aunt Rosette had been taken ill and had to go and lie down, leaving me unchaperoned, that I had agreed to meet Scipion in secret on the beach, and that he had kissed me under a mango tree.

“The scent stayed with me for days afterwards,” he said. “You were the most enchanting girl.”

I smiled. “All girls are enchanting at fifteen.”

“You were exceptional. Do you remember what I called you that night?”

“Bird of Paradise.”

We paused in our walking, breathing in the warm scented night air, recalling the sweetness of our past tryst. Frogs croaked, and somewhere in the distance birds were twittering.

“Dear Yeyette,” he began afresh, reaching for my hand. “When you return from your journey—”

“If I return,” I interjected.

“When you return, please tell me that we might talk of our future. We are both free now, we could marry.”

“Scipion, please, I cannot think of anything now but the task before me.”

“Then promise me that you will not reject the thought completely.” “You know that I have always been fond of you. Very fond.” I squeezed his hand, then released it. “Is there someone else?”

I paused, then admitted the truth. “Yes. But he has pledged himself to fight Bonaparte, and I have no idea where he is or how much danger he is in.”

“How terrible for you, my dear.”

We did not speak of Scipion’s suggestion again, but I saw the sadness in his eyes as he said goodnight to me that night, and the resigned look on his face when, our final preparations complete, our party climbed into the coach for the journey to LeHavre. I knew then that Scipion had come to Malmaison, not just because I had asked him to, but because he had been thinking of me with love, and intending to ask me to share his life.