19

MADAME CAVENT WAS EXPECTING US in Danzig, where she’d waited out the campaign in a comfortable apartment. Under her care, we recovered quickly. The bluish color of my left foot faded day by day, and Uncle Charles was able to avoid having his bad leg amputated, although his limp would be more pronounced than ever. But the terrible things we’d seen and suffered had left their mark, even on my uncle, accustomed as he was to the horrors of war.

“There will never be another military disaster or retreat to equal ours,” he told me bleakly when, unable to talk of anything else, we’d begun again to grieve the cold, the snow, the Borodino, the burning of Moscow, the Cossacks and the Muzhiks, the wounded and the prisoners we’d left behind, Alfred’s death, and the deaths of so many others we’d seen marching to music and pomp toward the Niemen. The most painful part was that half a million of our men had died for nothing. But while Uncle Charles blamed this on the wickedness of France’s enemies, I blamed the debacle on Napoleon, though I kept this to myself in order to spare him any further distress. I felt like that soldier in Borodino whose case, much discussed at the time, had been considered extraordinary. Having lost both legs and been left for dead, he’d managed to survive by eating moss and raw horse entrails. Weeks later, as Napoleon was crossing the battlefield, he’d dragged himself to the road in order to confront him, throwing his own sorry condition in the Emperor’s face and cursing him in the name of the thousands of French citizens who had died there.

“And all in only five months,” my uncle went on, now addressing Madame Cavent who, looking at us over her crocheting, nodded sympathetically. “So many years to build the Grande Armée, and in five months everything went to hell! And not only that, now we’re worse off than before. As soon as spring arrives, the Russians will descend upon us and, mark my words, so will the Austrians, in spite of Empress Marie Louise, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see the Swedes follow them, now that they’ve got Bernadotte. And let’s not even mention the Prussians. We’ve been abandoned.” My uncle was referring to Prussia’s recent declaration of neutrality, a truly hypocritical gesture, since Friedrich Wilhelm was already raising a volunteer army. “And just what do you think will happen to the Confederation of the Rhine? Well, I’ll tell you. It will turn against us as soon as the war reaches the Elbe. The only ones who’ll stand by us are the Bavarians and the Hessians, those from Westphalia, Baden, and Württemberg, and I can only say that because I saw them die all around me. In all honesty, our truest allies are the Poles. We will always be able to count on them, although if you really think about it, the Spaniards weren’t half-bad at Borodino; nor were the Swiss at Berezina. In any case, if I were the Emperor, I wouldn’t negotiate any further with the Russians, or with the Austrians and Prussians, or with the Saxons either. I would simply forget about them. Let them ally with England! I’d be content to hold on to half of Germany and to Holland, Italy, and Switzerland. And Spain as well, since as far as Portugal goes, I’d leave it to the British. But Spain is Spain. It’s our safeguard. Atlantic ports. . . . We have a Bonaparte there as king, troops, and some support. We could defeat Wellington if we sent in a hundred thousand reinforcements. . . . So, what do you think of my ideas as a statesman?” he asked me. “You’ll soon see that the Emperor will think the same as I do. Oh, but of all our allies, I’ll stand by the Poles. Poor Alfred! I can still see him. . . . We must figure out how to take some territory from the Russians and the Prussians and give Poland its independence.”

As the situation in Prussia was rapidly becoming more complicated, and we were in desperate need of a respite from the war, Uncle Charles put his experience on the Iberian Peninsula to good use and arranged to be sent to inspect military hospitals in Spain, with me, of course, to go along as his assistant. I should mention that this news came at a moment when I was weighing two alternatives: continuing to be Enrique or going back to being to Henriette, with the intention of returning to Foix or of visiting Maryse or of doing whatever I felt like that didn’t involve practicing medicine. To enact the latter, the only thing I’d have to do would be to dress as a woman; Enrique Fuenmayor would instantly vanish, his name appearing, in the f’s alongside Fauriel’s, on the long list of people disinclined to risk their hides for the whims of one man. Except Uncle Charles was so happy to have arranged for a sort of vacation in a warm and sunny clime that the balance tipped in his favor. But there was something else as well. My uncle—even Madame Cavent—no longer thought of me as an ordinary woman; to him I was both Enrique and Henriette, and he took pride in being able to count on me as a niece, colleague, and comrade-in-arms. And that recognition of my complex roll in life filled me with satisfaction. As for Madame Cavent, I couldn’t help a wry smile when, one afternoon when my uncle had gone out to a café, she came into my room to tell me, quite tenderly, how fortunate she felt to have me by her husband’s side. “Though I can’t be present in those horrible battles, I know that you’ll take care of him just as I would.”

Given that we weren’t expected in Madrid until the 30th of May, we planned a trip that would take all of our interests into account. My uncle needed to be in Paris for a few days in order to collect his back pay, and I would take the opportunity to recover my jewels from their safe deposit box. Madame Cavent wanted to visit her mother in Blois, and I wanted to arrange a meeting in Toulouse with my lawyer, Monsieur Lebrun, to put my will in order—until then I hadn’t thought that, statistically speaking, my chances of dying during a campaign were the same as a soldier’s—and, while there, pay a visit to Françoise and Pierre. And since I’d be near my country estate, I could take advantage of the opportunity to meet my renter, a certain Monsieur D’Alencourt, and ride horses through the woods, and especially, return to Fairy Godmother’s clearing, that magical circle of games and picnics that had revealed itself to me in Russia as the sweet space that separated life from death. And so, to save time and energy—the journey overland would have been too tiring, particularly in winter—we would board a ship-of-the-line serving in the blockade against the British that would dock at Brest. From there we would travel by carriage, stopping over in all the places I’ve mentioned, and finally enter Spain along the road from Perpignan to Barcelona.

It was not the best time of year to travel by boat and we all suffered terribly from seasickness during the crossing. But, as Aunt Margot, always so fond of refrains, used to say: “Every cloud has a silver lining.” Forced to lie down through most of the voyage, Uncle Charles and I both had the chance to rest our injured legs.

After dropping Madame Cavent in Blois, we arrived in Paris on a Saturday in the beginning of April. I remember the day of the week because Uncle Charles wanted to attend a grand military review which, presided over by Napoleon, was to take place at the Place du Carrousel on Sunday. We went first to the house on Saint-Honoré and opened the windows to air it out after a year of being closed up. Nevertheless, it was impossible to rid the rooms of a dense aroma of dead flowers—quite inexplicable, as all of the vases were empty. It wasn’t even all that similar to the stench of decay that pervaded the battlefields, but it put us off anyway, perhaps because it was, in some way, sad to be confronted by the perishable nature of beauty. The concierge, a woman quite competent with domestic affairs, sent her daughter to buy incense, but the new scent was still unable to displace the other in the corners of the rooms and inside the armoires. As I was hanging my Woman in her new frame—the canvas had begun to deteriorate from having been folded for so long—I found, above the fireplace, a brief letter that Françoise had written to me before she left. Nothing in particular. Very grateful for my gifts, she’d sold the cabriolet, the horses, and my women’s clothing for almost five thousand francs. She and Pierre would travel to Foix in a postal wagon and, after the wedding, would try their luck in Toulouse. Pierre planned to buy a carriage, and she would open a small seamstress’ shop. She would leave their new address with my lawyer, Monsieur Lebrun, and she closed, wishing all the best to Uncle Charles, Madame Cavent, and me.

After our disastrous defeat in Russia, the Parisians’ political sentiments were not what they’d been when I left. As before, the majority of the residents of the Saint-Germain and Saint-Honoré faubourgs detested Napoleon, even as the poor and working classes continued to idolize him. But now, the bourgeoisie’s loyalties were divided. Until then, that class had not been directly affected by mourning for those who hadn’t returned, since it was common practice for manufacturers and businessmen to pay for substitutes to fight in the place of their sons. But now this was no longer possible. In accordance with the new directive, they were to join the ranks of the National Guard, inciting great unrest among these families. (Upon his return from Russia, the first thing Napoleon had done was to take measures to raise a new army of three hundred and fifty thousand men. Of them, one hundred thousand would be from the 1814 conscription, one hundred thousand from the National Guard, and one hundred fifty thousand from the 1813 conscription, for which the enlistment age had been lowered to include young men of sixteen—called “Marie-Louises” after a proclamation made by the Empress. Also called up were the invalids whose wounds had healed enough to allow them to march and to bite open cartridges. The truth was that all human resources were utilized, and volunteers even up to sixty years old were accepted. Because the Grande Armée had lost its cavalry, an appeal to the generosity of the general population was issued, requesting donations of draft and riding horses.) Nevertheless, that said, I would venture that the majority of Parisians were still afflicted with “Napoleonic fever.” The night I went to the theater to see L’Abencérage, Napoleon and Marie-Louise occupied the imperial box to raucous cries of Vive l’Empereur!

After Uncle Charles agreed to my idea of applying for French citizenship for Enrique Fuenmayor, an alter ego that already felt very much my own, we decided to consult with his lawyer, Monsieur Dubreuil. In the end, we had to visit his office three times. For the first visit, to collect my jewelry, deposited under the name Madame Renaud, I wore women’s clothing, a beautiful black-haired wig, and Uncle Charles’ reading glasses. Not that this was even necessary, because Uncle Charles himself had deposited my jewels, and could have just as easily taken care of collecting them. It was just that I was so curious to see if anyone would be able to discover my double identity, for the following day I would have to return as Enrique Fuenmayor to attend to the matter of his change in citizenship. In case the hoax were to be discovered, I would engage Monsieur Dubreuil as my lawyer, who would then be professionally obliged not to divulge his client’s secrets.

Now wearing my dress uniform, blond pigtail hanging down beneath my bicorn hat, I called again on Monsieur Dubreuil, accompanied by my uncle who, fortunately, had good-naturedly agreed to go along with the farce, treating it as though we were attending a costume ball. After he’d examined the documents Maryse had sent me from Havana, along with my student and military credentials, Monsieur Dubreuil, an incredibly fat man, said: “Everything is in order. The only difficulty is that there are thousands of applications in process and it could take months, if not years, for your paperwork to go through. In addition, they’ve lowered the salary for public functionaries. . . . What I mean to say is that, if the application were presented with a little gift. . . . There’s even a sort of price list with variable rates: ‘extremely urgent,’ ‘very urgent,’ ‘urgent,’ ‘less urgent.’ It’s up to you, Don Enrique,” he added, using the Spanish form of address, surely to flatter me, never suspecting that in affirming my masculinity he did so in another sense as well.

“It’s ‘most urgent,’” intervened my uncle. “Don Enrique, Madame Renaud, and I must leave for Toulouse as soon as possible. How quickly can we obtain the certificate of citizenship?”

“Four days, five at the most.”

“And the gift?” I asked.

“For ‘extremely urgent’ the price is seven thousand francs, an amount that includes my fee as well, naturally.”

“But that’s an enormous amount of money!” protested my uncle. “It’s more than I pay in rent, as you well know, maître Dubreuil!”

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders, causing his jowls and lardy cheeks to quiver.

“It is what’s required,” he said. “Don’t forget that there are several functionaries whose pockets must be lined. Evidently, there are those prepared to pay this amount. ‘Very urgent’ is five thousand francs. That will take about two weeks.”

“It’s a lot of money,” said Uncle Charles.

“We haven’t even received our salaries yet,” I said, disappointed.

“Ah, but there is one solution I’ve just remembered,” said the lawyer, tapping his temple with a chubby finger. “If someone were willing to serve as guarantor. . . . ”

“Guarantor? I don’t know anyone in a position to do that. It’s a sum beyond any of my friends’ capacities. Were we in Havana, it would be another story.”

“Undoubtedly, Don Enrique. But, unfortunately, we’re in Paris. Perhaps you’d be interested in ‘urgent,’ three thousand five hundred francs; there’s also ‘less urgent,’ about four months, maybe five.”

“What about Madame Cavent as guarantor?” said Uncle Charles. “She’s quite fond of Don Enrique and I know she’d be thrilled to do him a favor.”

“Of course, but didn’t you tell me when you arrived that she was in Blois visiting her mother? We’d need her signature, doctor.”

“And Madame Renaud?” I said with a wink at my uncle, thoroughly enjoying myself. “She’s also fond of me and she’s available.”

“Madame Renaud? Well, yes, of course. Some of her jewels would be worth more than ‘extremely urgent.’ We can take care of everything this afternoon. If it suits you, we can all meet here after lunch.”

My heart sank. I cursed my idea of accompanying my uncle as Madame Renaud. I’d have no choice but to reveal my disguise, a situation that, in addition to humiliating me and compromising my uncle, would not amuse Dubreuil in the slightest, since the fact that he’d failed to see through my trick would mark him a fool in our eyes.

“Don Enrique had planned to meet with some of his old professors this afternoon,” said Uncle Charles providentially. “He does not wish to lose contact with them. After all, he’ll return to the Medical School once the war is over.”

“Yes, that’s true,” I affirmed. “It’s already set. I’m having lunch at the Café Procope with my anatomy and surgery professors.”

“No problem at all. We can put the application papers in order right now and when Madame Renaud has a moment she can stop by.”

And so everything was resolved. Enrique Fuenmayor y Faber requested French citizenship under the name Henri Faber and, hours later, Madame Renaud became guarantor of a loan in the amount of seven thousand francs on his behalf. When the lawyer recorded Madame Renaud’s maiden name, he paused at the coincidence of the surname Faber, but he quickly acknowledged that it was a common name in Switzerland, Italy, Germany and Spain, and even in France, where it had taken the form Favre.

Four days later I received, from Monsieur Dubreuil’s voluminous hands, my certificate of citizenship, which would remain in his files together with Enrique Fuenmayor’s other papers. That very morning I took him on as my lawyer, putting him in exclusive charge of Henri Faber’s affairs. My lawyer in Toulouse was already the executor of those of Henriette Faber-Cavent, Renaud’s widow. And so, my double identity, now legalized, was recorded separately in Paris and in the Languedoc. Having collected his salary and recuperated his travel expenses, my uncle paid a month’s rent in advance and we left the house on Saint-Honoré, still permeated with the smell of dead flowers. That same day Napoleon left Saint-Cloud, bound for Germany. According to the latest rumors, the Russian and Prussian armies were already advancing on the Elbe.

The weather improved steadily as we traveled. Uncle Charles had enlisted the services of a postilion, a colorful Italian who drove the horses at a comfortable pace, singing ballads all the while. Now deep into an auspicious spring, full of birds and bumblebees, the landscape seemed abuzz with glee, glory, and resurrection and, suddenly, strangely, I felt certain that a man was awaiting me somewhere. Yes, without a doubt, this would be the gift of the new year; more than just sensing him, I could actually feel him breathing next to me, his hands caressing me, his lips kissing me. Where would I find him? In Toulouse? Barcelona? Madrid? Who would this new love be, this passion as yet without a name or a face, a mere ethereal body, evoked in a flash of intuition? Would he be the Second Husband, the Father Husband who would give me the child I’d longed for in my snowy niche? But life is not prodigal. It gives with one hand and takes away with the other. What would it rob me of this time? And if it were to take him, and Robert all over again, and Alfred, whom I could still see before me, walking his via crucis along that terrible road to Vilna? Perhaps it meant to give him to me only to take him away again in the blink of an eye? Would it always be like this, continually shifting from lover to mourner, never even having enough time to fully understand for whom I wept? But what was the point in anticipating the end of an imaginary union, and a tragic end at that? Why not imagine that everything could go smoothly? Hadn’t I confirmed by now that nothing can been foreseen or taken for granted, not even death, since at the last minute someone can pull the cord and yank a person out of the Garden of Delight, setting her once again upon life’s path? Why not concur with Robledo, why not accept, without banging my head any further against the wall, that what is meant to happen, happens?

Toulouse appeared unchanged since my last visit. We stayed in a hotel along the river and while my uncle and Madame Cavent rested, I dressed as a woman, took my box of jewels, and went off to see my lawyer, whom I’d only met through letters. Because he’d been the executor of my inheritance and greatly trusted by my Aunt Margot, I’d expected to find an elderly man with ink-tinted fingers, dandruff on his jacket shoulders, and a kind of provincial eloquence. But the man who received me in his office couldn’t have been more than forty years old and, if not exactly handsome, quickly revealed certain unmistakable charms.

“Ah, Madame Renaud, have a seat, I beg of you,” he said, after elegantly kissing my hand, an appreciative smile on his face.

“Monsieur Joseph Lebrun?” I asked, incredulous. As he nodded, I remembered that the name of the firm was Lebrun & Son. Surely this was Aunt Margot’s friend’s son, who shared a last name with his father. “How is your father?” I asked, sitting down, intending to tell him that I’d prefer to conduct my business with the other Lebrun.

“My father?” he said, taken aback. “My father died over seven years ago. I wrote to you of this sad turn of events.”

“Oh, do forgive me! I didn’t know. I’m very sorry. He was such a dear friend of my aunt’s. I’m truly sorry. . . . As for your letter, I never received it. That explains my confusion.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for,” he said, with an expressive gesture of the hand. “It’s not the first of my letters to be lost, particularly when they’re sent to another country. At that time you were living in Bavaria . . . Munich, I believe. Just after my father died, I handled the matter of your dowry, a triangular operation through a banker in Vienna. . . . Kessler, wasn’t it?”

“My God, maître, what a good memory you have!” I exclaimed, surprised.

“Actually, I don’t. In truth, I’m rather forgetful. The fact is, about a week ago, when I received word of your visit, I went over your file,” he said, indicating a safe standing next to the bookshelf. “Which reminds me, Monsieur D’Alencourt, your renter, wishes to extend his lease for a five-year term. If you’ve decided to settle in Paris, I think it prudent to do so; we could raise the rent a touch. I already have the paperwork ready, along with his rent for the year. By the way, I’ve just paid off a promissory note of yours in the amount of seven thousand francs. But tell me, what can I do for you?”

“My will, maître. I’d like to take advantage of my stay in Toulouse to draw up my will, and I’d like to deposit my jewels with you. I’m just passing through. On the way to Spain, actually. I’ll be accompanying my uncle and his wife. I don’t know if you have the time—”

“I congratulate you, madame,” he interrupted. “It’s an intelligent decision. Very few people of your age stop to consider that we aren’t immortal. Especially, as in your case, when one is so healthy and beautiful.”

I thanked him for the compliment with an idiotic smile. It had been so long since anyone had flirted with me that I’d forgotten the language of coquetry. But his flattery was all it took for me to consider him more closely. His charm lay in his gaze. Nothing appeared to escape him. Those black, Southern eyes, looked on with the keenness of a sharpshooter, the best marksmen in the whole of the Grande Armée. Their mission was to fire at special targets, usually high-ranking officials, aides-de-camp at the gallop, ammunition carts. . . . His hands, his long and agile fingers, moved gracefully up and down, from left to right, with a language of their own that almost rendered words superfluous. He was wearing a woman’s ring, but on his pinkie rather than on his ring finger, and I wondered if he were a widower. It also occurred to me that he would make a fine actor, although, in reality, he already was one, except his stage was that somberly furnished office, done in mahogany and bronze, with its olive green drapes, rows of law books, an antique mariner’s clock, a grand portrait, à la David, of a beautiful woman dressed in the style of the Directorate. Suddenly, I felt my nipples swell. Without lowering my head, I looked down through my eyelashes. There they were, quite noticeable, especially the one on the left.

“Very well, madame. Have I won your approval?”

“What do you mean, monsieur?” I asked dryly, hiding my embarrassment at the realization that my scrutiny had not gone unnoticed.

“Your approval as a lawyer. What else could I have meant?”

“Oh, yes, of course, maître. After all, we’ve been writing to one another for years. We’re already old friends,” I allowed.

“You were talking about your will. But before we go on, I should tell you that, no matter whom you should designate as beneficiaries today, you are free to change your mind next week or whenever you see fit. It is the final document, and not those that precede it, that is legally binding.”

“Understood, Monsieur Lebrun. Well then. . . . My jewels, which I will leave in your custody tomorrow morning, I leave to Madame Anne Cavent, my uncle’s wife. Here is the address of her house in Blois, where her mother currently lives,” I said, holding out the paper to him. “And any amount of money that I have with me, or with which you are entrusted in my name, should be given to the Manches, Pierre and Françoise. Perhaps one of them has already left their address with you?”

“Yes, yes, I have it here,” he said, looking through a leather portfolio. “I often take Monsieur Manche’s carriage to attend to some errand or another, especially when my business affairs require me to travel to other cities. An excellent coachman, Monsieur Manche. I should say that he holds you in very high esteem. He speaks of you often. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration were I to say that, when I saw you come into my office, I felt I already knew you.”

“I appreciate him a great deal as well,” I said. “We went to the war together. Then he went to work for the traveling theater company we had back in Germany.”

“The Théâtre Nomade,” said Lebrun, and his hand described a grandiose spiral as though he were introducing a circus act. “Oh, madame, there are many here who would envy you your life! Vienna, Berlin, Warsaw, Rhineland, Westphalia, Bavaria, Baden, and, of course, most recently, Paris. I, on the other hand, a modest provincial lawyer. I haven’t even been back to Paris since my years as a student.”

“Believe me, maître, my life has been more difficult than you might imagine.”

“Of course, Madame Renaud. Please forgive my lack of tact,” he said, resting his hand over his heart. “I understand, I have also been widowed,” he added, fixing his gaze on my indomitable nipple, closing one eye as though taking aim with a musket. Then he raised his hand weakly toward the portrait. “My wife. . . . Many years ago now.”

“Very beautiful, Monsieur. I’m sorry for your loss. How nice that you were able to preserve her image. I have the impression that the painter did her justice.”

“Do you like it?” he asked, getting up from his seat to move closer to the painting. Then he took a few steps away from it and examined it carefully, as though he’d never seen it before.

“The work of a fine artist,” I assured him.

“Thank you, madame. I am the painter,” he said, turning back around to face me, giving me a sad smile as he forced himself not to allow his gaze to linger over my breasts.

His confession impressed me. Suddenly, I couldn’t think of anything to say. Finally, I said: “How is it possible that an artist of your talent should have changed professions?” Although, had I been more honest with him, I would have asked him why he had traded in his paintbrushes and palette for an occupation as prosaic as the administration of real estate.

“Oh, madame, I never was a true artist, I mean, a professional painter. I studied at the Academy as a young man. But my father convinced me of the benefits of working here with him. I wanted to marry. Have a family. I imagine you know well the risks assumed by those who live off the arts.”

“I understand. Did you paint that canvas in Paris?” I asked, curious to know more about his past.

“Yes. It was my last painting. Afterwards, I swore I’d never paint again. And well . . . here you find me.”

“Do you have children?”

“Camille. She’s just turned fourteen. But getting back to your will. As for your properties. . . . ”

“Yes,” I said, in light of his reticence to discuss his life in further detail. “I think it would be best to leave all of my properties to my uncle, Charles-Henri Cavent. But with one condition.”

“Forgive me, allow me to make a note.”

“That upon his death, the château shall become a school for the daughters of disabled veterans, to be operated off the profits brought in from the cultivation of the lands. The school should be directed by a capable woman. . . . Another thing. I would like to use the money accumulated through my rented property to buy the house I use in Paris, you know the one, on Rue Saint-Honoré. It isn’t urgent. The rent is paid through next April. I wish to leave that house to Madame Nadezhda Ivánovna. The last I knew of her she was working as a nurse in a military hospital in Smolensk. I beg you to investigate her whereabouts and inform her that the house will always be at her disposal. Furthermore, in that same house I have a painting of a woman in a shako. My wish is that it be hung in the school.”

“Very good, Madame Renaud. A question: who is to inherit the house if Madame Ivánovna doesn’t turn up?”

“My uncle, but I implore you to do everything in your power to locate Madame Ivánovna. In addition, should she lack funds to travel to Paris, these should be provided as well.”

“I’ll do the impossible to find her. And now, as for the school . . . you must name a board of trustees.”

“What does that mean?”

“Individuals to see to the administration of the lands, the maintenance of the building, the hiring of the school’s personnel and the director and, above all, to ensure that she perform her job well.”

“Well, in that case, I’d like you to chair the board of trustees and to organize it according to your own good judgment.”

“Thank you, Madame Renaud. You truly honor me with your trust. But, if I were unable?”

“What a nuisance, maître Lebrun! Couldn’t you designate someone serious and dedicated to the task?”

“I could, it’s just that you must authorize me to do so.”

“Yes, yes, of course. I’d imagined my will would be a more straightforward matter,” I protested.

“It’s not as complicated as it seems,” he said, erasing the difficulty of the legal requirements with a carefree wave of his hand. “It’s just that, in terms of the law, it’s best to leave things as absolutely clear as possible. But very well, everything is quite clear now. You can come by tomorrow afternoon to sign the will, the inventory list for your jewels, and the new rental contract,” he said in a tone of voice that suggested our conversation was over. But then, as though he hoped I’d stay a while longer, he added: “I can give you further details. Or if there’s anything else I can offer you. . . . ”

“Thank you, maître Lebrun,” I said, standing up. “It has been a pleasure to meet you in person. I need to think about the new lease. Five years. . . . I don’t know. I may wish to return to Foix before that.”

“The pleasure has been all mine. I know now that the captivating image I’ve held of you in my imagination corresponds with the real person.”

“In that case, you could paint me without my even being present.”

“Perhaps,” he said, running his intense eyes over my features. “But as I’ve already told you. . . . ”

“Going back to painting could alleviate some of the pain of her loss,” I replied, trying to prolong our meeting. I felt that, before going, I needed to be sure that he wasn’t the man of my premonition.

“My pain will be with me as long as I live,” he murmured, looking again at the painting.

“But you have a daughter, someone to live for.”

“I won’t deny that it’s crossed my mind more than once to pick up a brush and paint our famous bridge, though it’s been done a hundred times already. Also, to marry again. But if that is to happen, the moment has not yet arrived.”

“I understand,” I said, disappointed, and I turned slowly toward the door, giving him time to come open it for me. “One last thing: do you know what play is showing at the theater? I’d very much like to see something interesting before I leave France. I’d also appreciate the name of a good place to eat.”

It was my final attempt. If he invited me out, Joseph Lebrun could well become my second husband.

“I can’t tell you anything about the theater. I only rarely attend a show. You could ask my assistant, Ducharme, on your way out; he’ll know, because his brother works as a prompter. As for a meal, I recommend La Chasse au Sanglier, just around the corner. Although, if you saw fit, I’d be honored to invite you to dine with me. But no, pardon me, I remember now that I can’t. Another time,” he said, retreating to his desk. “Tonight I must draw up Madame Larraz’ will. She’s quite ill, the poor thing.”

(And now, Joseph Lebrun, as I raise you in my memory, I realize how close you were to opening a new destiny to me. Because we came so close that night to sharing a cassoulet with wine from Avignon, to talking and talking for hours, and I’d have watched your hands flutter about like skylarks until I felt them over mine, stretched out across the tablecloth, offering themselves up to your caress, your eyes fixed on my nipple, setting it firmly in your sights so that it couldn’t escape you. Oh, Joseph Lebrun, what a pity that you weren’t on my path, because it would have been so easy for me to leave it all on that night that never happened, to tell Uncle Charles that I’d be staying in Toulouse dressed as a bride because I’d found the One Foreseen, the Father Husband, and we’d have done so many things together, you’d have painted me and our children and Camille, and I’d have accompanied you on all your business trips, Montauban, Carcassonne, Montpellier, Nimes, Pierre taking us in his carriage, and we’d have spent Sundays in Foix and I’d have shown you my forest and my magical circle of mushrooms and dandelions, and we’d have spent holidays and Christmases there and, little by little, you’d have grown accustomed to living without the city, and, at first, you’d have stopped working on Mondays, and then Tuesdays and, over time, you’d have left Ducharme in charge of certain matters, and later, assuming that he’d marry Camille, since that’s how things often work in the provinces, you’d have given him a share of the firm and you’d have dedicated yourself to painting the Ariège and the Garonne, the headlands and gorges, and the narrow valley of the Pyrenees, the village women with their headscarves and flowered aprons, the gypsies who tell fortunes and dance, showing off the colors of their many skirts, and the mule drivers and peddlers and smugglers with pistols at their waists and blunderbusses over their shoulders, who leave with scissors and blades and pocketknives from Marseilles and come back with peanut brittle and marzipan and handkerchiefs and sandals from Aragon. . . . And it wasn’t only that night we lost. There was still the next day. More dressed-up and perfumed than ever, my hair done and re-done and with my bosoms almost completely exposed, I walked into your office to sign the papers. I know that, for a moment, you were on the verge of making a move. You kept silent as I signed the will and the inventory list for my jewels and, after the witnesses had gone, there remained only the matter of the lease for Foix. I know you had chosen this moment to move your pieces; I, too, had saved it to advance my own. I paused with pen in hand. “Five years without returning to Foix,” I said, and raised my glance so that you might respond with a word, a gesture, at the very least, with your eyes. And I know that your plan to dissuade me began to take shape, that you considered taking the paper away from me and proposing any old thing, a café in the square, a carriage ride. But you came up short, you stood there with your mouth half-open, your hand in the air, your expression falling to pieces from pure impotence; you remained there, forever silent, watching as each letter of my name drew us further apart, standing before your dead wife, and she was more powerful than I. If only you knew, maître Lebrun, how close you were to changing my life!)

Françoise had put on weight. She’d given birth to a son scarcely a month earlier. Two girls were working in the front room of her house—filled with bolts of cloth, spools of thread, boxes of buttons, newsprint patterns, and dresses on hangers. In one corner, behind a curtain, a long mirror was affixed to the wall, and a stooped old woman was trying on a mourning dress. The next room was the bedroom, with an enormous walnut bed, quite old, surely from some inn from the time of Louis XIV. Next to it was the cradle. The baby slept on his side, red hair highlighted against the white of the sheet. To one side was a small courtyard with a fig tree and a few potted plants, clothes and diapers hung out to dry and, in the back, the tiny outhouse. The last room was the kitchen, with its pleasant odor of sautéing herbs and garlic. Françoise set a plate of bread and cheese on the table, along with some glasses and a bottle of local wine.

“What is the boy’s name?”

“Pierre-Henri. Pierre, after his father and Henri, after . . . can you guess?” she smiled. “I don’t have any milk. I’m raising him with goat’s milk mixed with water. They say it’s good for the stomach. He likes it.”

“I’m happy to hear it. Look at you, Françoise, a mother! Can you believe it?”

“I was afraid at first. I never thought. . . . But now, Henriette, I’m very glad I had him. And Pierre’s crazy about him. Really, we’re not so bad off: he has his carriage; I have my shop and my son. You’d be surprised to know that I barely read anymore, not even the newspaper. I work ten times harder than before and I don’t have time for anything. But it’s all mine. And I owe that to you,” she said, taking my hand and kissing it. “And now, some bad news: Pierre’s been called up. He’s to appear in four days. Many people have been drafted.”

“That’s how it is this time around,” I said, almost to myself, thinking that, this time next year, there would scarcely be any men at all left in France. “You must resign yourself, Françoise. There’s nothing to be done about it.”

“Yes there is. Pierre is from Foix. He knows the Pyrenees. He has a brother who’s a smuggler. He thinks he’d be better off in the mountains, in Andorra, or even on the Spanish side. His ideas have changed. He’s gone back to being a republican. Oh, Henriette, I don’t know what to advise him! He’s asked for my opinion and I don’t know what to tell him. What do you think?”

“Do what your heart tells you. But do consider that desertion is severely punished,” I said, chewing on a piece of bread. “What time will Pierre be home? I don’t want to leave without saying hello to him. Especially now.”

“He almost always comes home for dinner. You’ll eat with us, won’t you?”

“I’m afraid not. I already have plans tonight with my uncle and Madame Cavent. We’re meeting at La Chasse au Sanglier.”

“They have the best pâté de foie gras in the city. Delanoix is an excellent cook. I didn’t say anything before, but you should eat more. You look quite thin to me.”

“It’s the uniform. Also, wearing my hair in a pigtail sharpens my features.”

“It’s not the uniform or the hair. I’ve known you since you were a child.”

“Well, the Russian campaign. . . . It’s too long a story . . . and too sad. Do you remember Count Lubomirski?”

“How could I forget? He preferred English writers to my beloved Chateaubriand!”

“He’s dead.”

“Goddamn this war!” she said. “Well, now you see, I’ve decided! Pierre will desert!”

“But today, he’s here,” said Pierre from the kitchen doorway.

We talked for a while. Pierre had the latest news of what was going on in Spain. He’d met with his brother, Jacinthe, the night before at their mother’s house. According to him, it would be impossible to win that war.

“Andalucía is already lost, and the guerrillas control the mountains in Aragon and Navarre, as I well know, since Jacinthe is planning to join up with them. What’s more, next month, the British will cross the Duero and begin their summer campaign. King Joseph is waiting for them in Valladolid, but he’ll be defeated. He has the support of the wealthy, but not of the people. If I were you, madame, I wouldn’t go to Madrid. Madrid is nothing. It’s been taken before and it will be taken again.”

The thought of finding myself caught up in another retreat worried me, although I thought that Pierre, or rather, his brother, was exaggerating the danger of the situation.

“But we have two hundred thousand soldiers in Spain!” I protested.

“I’m not sure how many there are,” replied Pierre. “My brother says that they’re scattered among the villages and along the roads because, otherwise, they’d lose all possibility of communication.” Even if I didn’t completely share his pessimism, it was enough to see his furrowed brow, his gray eyebrows so prolific they nearly covered his eyes, to understand that this business with Spain was serious, that the pleasant summer excursion my uncle had in mind was unrealistic. According to Pierre, the guerillas functioned something like the bands of Cossacks; they attacked convoys, robbed them, took prisoners, and retreated. From what he said, there were guerillas in every province throughout Spain. Suddenly I realized that it would be much better for Pierre to drive our coach than that carefree Italian who’d brought us to Toulouse. The advantages were obvious: aside from almost being family, he spoke Spanish and knew the road through the Pyrenees; what was more, his brother Jacinthe could prove quite useful to us in a difficult moment, on account of his relationships with the guerillas and smugglers. Since I was certain that Uncle Charles would agree with my reasoning, I proposed that he accompany us. He fell suddenly quiet, lowered his head, and began to crumble some crumbs of bread with his hands, calloused from so many years at the reins. It was Françoise who spoke first: “Do as you wish, but think of our son.”

After emptying his glass and clearing his throat, Pierre looked at me.

“Madame Henriette, if you asked me to, I’d follow you straight into hell. But given my own choice, I’d prefer not to go with you. I have my own ideas. I’ll share them with you, and you’ll forgive me if they aren’t the same as yours. The tyrant who governs us has been no better for France than the kings and nobles were. Those of us who are poor continue to be poor, and what’s worse is that, for years now, we’ve been dying like flies everywhere from Russia to Spain. I believe in the Republic and in liberty for those who work the land and for those like Françoise and myself, who work to survive. I speak to you with my heart in my hands. I’d rather desert to the mountains than lift a finger in support of Napoleon.” And, turning to Françoise, he said with a villager’s pride: “Parbleu, I’ll leave my ideals to my son!”

We dined at La Chasse au Sanglier. Madame Cavent wanted to sample a local dish, so we ordered the cassoulet. Naturally, I didn’t tell Uncle Charles the details of my conversation with Pierre and Françoise. Why provoke a useless argument, since I knew that nothing would change his mind about Spain? Noticing me lost in thought, he interrupted his lively gastronomical conversation with Madame Cavent to tell me: “Forget about Russia. You must forget each campaign so that the next one will be like the first. We’ve already ruminated long enough about the retreat from Moscow. What was lost must remain buried. It’s springtime. The day after tomorrow we’ll be in the country with the best ham in the entire world.”

We spent only a few days in Barcelona because my uncle, greatly disappointed at the news of the crisis confronting King Joseph’s throne and the nasty war Spain was waging against us, wanted to arrive in Madrid as soon as possible. The military hospital was on the western end of the city, in a huge Benedictine convent called Jonqueres, near the city’s outer wall. Everything there was clean and in good order. There were a few cases of fever, and a handful of knife and bludgeon wounds, which lent the place the feel of a civilian hospital. Nevertheless, after we’d completed our rounds of the wards, the chief surgeon, a bespectacled man dressed in a smart uniform, said to my uncle: “Don’t be fooled, inspector, we’re as hated in Catalonia as in the rest of Spain. Despite the annexation decree, this is a far cry from France. Suffice to say that some of the new prefects are afraid to assume their posts. The munitions arsenal in Lérida was blown up a few months ago, and right here in Barcelona the garrison at the Citadel was poisoned. Just imagine, arsenic in the bread ration. Luckily, it didn’t go any farther than vomiting and diarrhea, although it did keep us quite busy. Of course the city’s been pacified and a few of the wealthy are collaborating with the Civil Government, but they do so with a grumble of discontent; the English blockade has ruinously paralyzed trade with America. Many a dawn finds a soldier stabbed or badly beaten and left in an alleyway. On the one hand, Intendant Chauvelin tries to win the Catalonians over by telling them that their customs are similar to ours. On the other hand, we’ve taken over their churches and convents to use as barracks, storehouses, and stables, forgetting that religion is ten times stronger here than in France. And so we are faced with two enemies: the Junta and the Holy Trinity. And that’s not even taking into account the Virgin of Montserrat, who, in addition to working miracles, appears to be every bit as patriotic as her sister, the Virgin of Zaragoza.”

“Are the roads to Madrid safe?” I asked, hoping that an answer in the negative might dissuade Uncle Charles from continuing with the trip.

“No Spanish road is safe at night; by day, one should only travel with a large military convoy. And even so, there are ambushes from time to time. I confess that I’m frightened every time I have to leave Barcelona. You’ll soon see what I mean.”

“Monsieur, you are speaking with veterans from the Russian campaign,” said my uncle, irked and, after bidding the surgeon a cool farewell, we turned on foot toward the palace where we were staying.

Seeing his limp growing worse, I suggested we sit for a spell on a park bench. I’d never seen him so upset, not even during the worst moments in Russia. He dropped down onto the bench, his breathing ragged. After a while, he said: “Now then, while we were walking I was thinking. It seems that the roads to Madrid are not safe. . . . Come now, don’t think you’re fooling me. I know you don’t want to go ahead with the trip. I don’t blame you, of course. And there’s Madame Cavent to think about as well. I’d imagined it completely differently. Things are not looking nearly as promising as I’d thought. Last night I spoke with the palace guard. You know, catching up on all the rumors. The Emperor ordered King Joseph to leave Madrid. The battles will take place in the north . . . Wellington. I know Wellington. A tough man to fight. I owe him my limp. Madame Cavent is not made for war. It’s my fault. I’d imagined it would be different. What can I tell you? I was wrong. But I’m a soldier. You know this. A soldier like Larrey, like Robert and Alfred were. Something that Madame Cavent simply cannot understand. The war is my life. That’s why I’ve been so decorated. And I have my orders . . . Madrid. Get to Madrid and, from there, organize an inspection of the hospitals. It’s not my concern whether or not King Joseph returns to Madrid. Although once we’ve defeated the British. . . . In any case, Henriette, do as you wish. I’ll say the same to Madame Cavent. You could return together in my carriage. After all, Paris is Paris.”

“Do as you wish,” I repeated to myself. But what was it I wished? I certainly did not want to go to Madrid, an abandoned capital not worth the risk of the journey. Much less did I want to stay in Barcelona. If the war was to be waged in the north, the British could cut off our retreat, and I knew all too well how prisoners were treated. Instinct told me to go wherever King Joseph was. The lion’s share of the army would be with him. If it were defeated, it would retreat over the Pyrenees, and I had no doubt that this would be the best way for me to return to France. On the other hand, if I were to succumb to my uncle’s insinuations, I’d be forced to desert, dress as a woman, accompany Madame Cavent to Paris, abandon my final year of medical school and set about attending dances in search of a husband. No, thank you. My premonition that a man was awaiting me in Spain returned, stronger than ever. Would he be in Madrid after all? At last I broke my long silence: “If what you’re trying to do is convince me to return to the Rue Saint-Honoré with Madame Cavent, I’m sorry to tell you that I won’t do it. I am also a soldier and I, too, have my orders. My orders are to follow you. If you want to stay in Madrid, I’ll stay there, although I think our place is with King Joseph’s General Staff.”

Very rarely have I seen a person’s mood change so quickly. My uncle’s face lit up with a smile that even Fauriel would have envied.

“You’re a good soldier, Henriette,” he said, throwing an arm over my shoulder. “With people like us, we might lose some battles, but never a war.”

After a journey replete with rumors of defeat, the majority of which we made in the company of a convoy transporting money from Valencia, we arrived in Madrid in the middle of May. Madame Cavent did not come with us. My uncle convinced her to stay in Barcelona, whose ramparts and fortifications guaranteed safe lodging.

Madrid reminded me a bit of Moscow. A Moscow without domes, naturally, but a city that, despite its palaces and boulevards, still had the feel of a large village. It was quite dirty and lethargic, the gardens untended, here and there a fragment of a mirror, a staved-in guitar, a pile of broken plates that testified to the successive sackings it had suffered—the French, English, and even the Madrileños themselves had vied with one another for its spoils. One needn’t have been a local to see that disorder and improvisation reigned, a fact that immediately vexed my uncle.

When we presented ourselves to General Leval, the garrison commander, he treated us almost as though we were lunatics, making it plain that he found it difficult to believe that we had traveled all the way from Barcelona with the sole objective of organizing an inspection of hospitals throughout Spain.

“This never was Paris. But in any case, there’s nothing to organize here except our retreat. The General Staff is in Valladolid, and any day now I’m expecting the order to join up with His Majesty’s forces,” he said acidly. But, realizing that we could be of some use to him in the evacuation effort, he added, addressing himself to my uncle: “Of course it goes without saying that we are in sore need of experienced men such as yourself. I’m naming you interim chief of medical services for my troops. You’re in charge of requisitioning the wagons necessary to transport our sick and wounded, and do be sure that everything is carried out as efficiently as possible.” And without further ado, he sent us off with an aide-de-camp to see General Hugo, who was acting governor.

The evacuation order came at the end of the month and, at dawn the following day, we began to march. My uncle’s bad mood worsened with the arrival of the news that Wellington had taken Salamanca and was threatening both Madrid from the South and Valladolid from the North. By then, he scarcely spoke to me and I noticed, worried, that he was drinking continuously, to the point that, by nightfall, he was completely inebriated. He did almost nothing in the hospitals, limiting himself to inquiring after the number of wounded who were fit to be transported in the wagons provided by the governor. Once the ambulances were full, he disregarded everything else. He took a large carriage for himself in which, in addition to two hams and several cases of wine, he installed the widow of a royal functionary who, almost without preamble, had agreed to become his lover. Not having been invited to share his living space, I made room for myself in an ambulance carrying seven wounded men and a surgeon major traveling with his library. The last French families remaining in Madrid fell in behind Leval’s infantry, as did many of the Spanish ministers and courtiers who’d served King Joseph. The locals called them “Frenchifieds,” and hated them even more than they hated us, the invaders, as is usually the case with those who’ve betrayed their own country. They’d refused to leave the city with the convoys in March and April. They remembered all too well their miserable flight the previous summer, when Wellington had advanced on Madrid, and they’d delayed their departure until the last possible moment in the hope that their Exodus wouldn’t be repeated. But it was to be repeated and now, traveling by coach, wagon, mule, and horse with their most prized possessions in tow—including manservants and wet nurses—they prepared, weeping and wailing, to cross the Guadarrama mountain pass. (Is it even worthwhile for me to give the details of that retreat, to revisit the insufferable slowness of the march, the overturned wagons by the side of the road, the children begging for food and drink, the uncertainty and the hardships we suffered over four long weeks? I think not. Even though I believe that history brazenly repeats itself, I’ve read enough to know that novels do not benefit from repetition. It might seem odd that I speak of novels and not memoirs. It’s just that, after spending a week calmly reading over my papers—I’ve had no choice but to prescribe myself a restorative tonic and stretch out to rest by the window as though I were a plant in need of sunlight—I’ve reached the conclusion that this manuscript I’m so obsessively writing, cutting and re-cutting into parts and sections, rereading and editing, tuning and fine-tuning, is, definitively, a novel. To wit: I’ve left out hundreds of people, friends as well as enemies, who never managed to take shape as characters; I’ve omitted countless experiences, impressions, and episodes whose excessive foliage overshadowed certain passages I wished to highlight; I’ve imagined dialogues that perhaps never took place, and reconstructed meticulously detailed scenes based on memories by now so blurry they could well be taken for dreams; I’ve hidden, like one sweeping dirt under the rug, my hypocrisies and pettiness, anything that seemed imprudent to reveal. Haven’t I silenced the fact that, one afternoon, to spite Robert, I went to bed with his best friend Constant, and that for many, many days I allowed Andrea and Piet Vaalser to lick me from head to toe in the dim light of my carriage, and that Fauriel and I, after living first as friends, ended up living as husband and wife until the very day of her desertion? I’ve silenced all of this, and so many other dubious adventures. And why have I done so? I’ve done it—I see it clearly now—in order to be the woman I never managed to be, to present myself as I wish you to see me, you who have bought my book for a moment’s entertainment; I’ve done it in order to survive as the protagonist of my own story, in order to balance my behavior as though I were walking with a long pole across a tight rope, poised between two fatal falls, since in novels heroines are equally damned for being overly indecent and overly chaste; it’s all a matter of a slight adjustment to the right or left, Madame Bovary or Jane Eyre, although deep down they’re the same, paper acrobats, or better yet, obliging prostitutes sold for ten francs per read. And it’s not that it’s too late to turn myself in, exactly as I’ve been, to the tribunal of the printed word. I’ve saved all my rough drafts right here in this drawer, and it would be easy for me to resuscitate the material I’ve censured. It’s just that, without being aware of it, I’ve chosen a course that adheres more closely to fiction than to my reality, and I see no reason to backtrack now. I’d rather adorn myself with the trappings of a fable and unfold myself along the lines of Tom Jones or Gil Blas, than display the inconsistencies and irremediable complexity of a flesh-and-blood person. In the end, the only spontaneous lines that shall go to the printer will be the ones I wrote when, expelled from Havana, I was traveling to New Orleans; notes that, like my tiny portrait of Aunt Margot, seem to have a will of their own that insists they not be lost, that follow me stubbornly across the years and dusty roads. In honor of their perseverance, I shall give them to Milly to copy down. I’ll decide later if they’ll go at the beginning or at the end of my manuscript.)