Читать книгу The Last Cavalier: Being the Adventures of Count Sainte-Hermine in the Age of Napoleon - Александр Дюма, Alexandre Dumas - Страница 13

WHILE BONAPARTE WAS MEETING with Cadoudal in the Louis Quatorze salon, Josephine, certain that Bourrienne was alone, put on her dressing gown, wiped her reddened eyes, spread a layer of rice powder on her face, slipped her Creole feet into sky-blue Turkish slippers with gold embroidery, and quickly climbed the little stairway connecting her bedroom to Marie de Medicis’s oratory.

When she arrived at the study door, she stopped and, bringing both hands up to her heart, peered guardedly into the room. Determining that Bourrienne was indeed alone—writing, with his back to her—she tiptoed across the room and laid her hand on his shoulder.

Smiling, for he recognized the light touch of her hand, Bourrienne turned around.

“Well,” Josephine asked. “Was he very angry?”

“Yes,” Bourrienne said. “I must admit that it was a major storm, if a storm with no rain. But there was thunder and lightning indeed.”

“In short,” Josephine added, moving directly to the only point that interested her, “will he pay?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have the six hundred thousand francs?”

“Yes, I do,” said Bourrienne.

Josephine clapped her hands like a child just relieved of its penitence.

“But,” Bourrienne added, “for the love of God, don’t run up any more debts, or at least be reasonable.”

“What do you call reasonable debt, Bourrienne?” asked Josephine.

“How do you expect me to answer that? The best thing would be to run up no debt at all.”

“You surely know that is impossible, Bourrienne,” Josephine answered with conviction.

“Perhaps fifty thousand francs. Maybe one hundred thousand.”

“But, Bourrienne, once these debts have been paid, and you are confident that you can pay them all with the six hundred thousand francs…”

“Yes?”

“Well, my suppliers will then no longer refuse me credit.”

“But how about him?”

“Who?”

“The First Consul. He swore that these would be the last debts he would pay on your account.”

“Just as he also swore last year,” said Josephine with her charming smile.

Bourrienne looked at her in stupefaction. “Truly,” he said, “you frighten me. Give us two or three years of peace and the few measly millions we brought back from Italy will be exhausted; yet you persist.… If I have any advice to give you, it is to allow him some time to get over this bad mood of his before you see him again.”

“But I can’t! Because I really must see him right away. I have set up a meeting this morning for a compatriot from the colonies, a family friend, the Comtesse de Sourdis and her daughter, and not for anything in the world would I have him fly into a fit of rage in the presence of these fine women, women whom I met in society, on their first visit to the Tuileries.”

“What will you give me if I keep him up here, if I get him even to have his lunch here, so that he’d have no reason to come down to your rooms until dinnertime?”

“Anything you want, Bourrienne.”

“Well, then, take a pen and paper, and write in your own lovely little handwriting.…”

“What?”

“Write!”

Josephine put pen to paper, as Bourrienne dictated to her: “I authorize Bourrienne to settle all my bills for the year 1800 and to reduce them by half or even by three quarters if he judges it appropriate.”

“There.”

“Date it.”

“February 19, 1801.”

“Now sign it.”

“Josephine Bonaparte.… Is everything now in order?”

“Perfectly in order. You can return downstairs, get dressed, and welcome your friend without fear of being disturbed by the First Consul.”

“Obviously, Bourrienne, you are a charming man.” She held out the tips of her fingernails for him to kiss, which he did respectfully.

Bourrienne then rang for the office boy, who immediately appeared in the doorway. “Landoire,” Bourrienne said, “inform the steward that the First Consul will be taking lunch in his office. Have him set up the pedestal table for two. We shall let him know when we wish to be served.”

“And who will be having lunch with the First Consul, Bourrienne?”

“No business of yours, so long as it’s someone who can put him in a good mood.”

“And who would that be?”

“Would you like him to have lunch with you, madame?”

“No, no, Bourrienne,” Josephine cried. “Let him have lunch with whomever he chooses, just so he does not come down to me until dinner.” And in a cloud of gauze she fled the room.

Not two minutes later, the door to the study burst open and the First Consul strode straight to Bourrienne. Planting his two fists on the desktop, he said, “Well, Bourrienne, I have just seen the famous George Cadoudal.”

“And what do you think of him?”

“He is one of those old Bretons from the most Breton part of Brittany,” Bonaparte replied, “cut from the same granite as their menhirs and dolmens. And unless I’m sadly mistaken, I haven’t seen the last of him. He’s a man who fears nothing and desires nothing, and men like that … the fearless are to be feared, Bourrienne.”

“Fortunately such men are rare,” said Bourrienne with a laugh. “You know that better than anyone, having seen so many reeds painted to look like iron.”

“But they still blow in the wind. And speaking of reeds, have you seen Josephine?”

“She has just left.”

“Is she satisfied?”

“Well, she no longer carries all her Montmartre suppliers on her back.”

“Why did she not wait for me?”

“She was afraid you would scold her.”

“Surely she knows she cannot escape a scolding!”

“Yes, but gaining some time before facing you is like waiting for a change to good weather. Then, too, at eleven o’clock she is to receive one of her friends.”

“Which one?”

“A Creole woman from Martinique.”

“Whose name is?”

“The Comtesse de Sourdis.”

“Who are the Sourdis family? Are they known?”

“Are you asking me?”

“Of course. Don’t you know the peerage list in France backward and forward?”

“Well, it’s a family that has belonged to both the church and the sword as far back as the fourteenth century. Among those participating in the French expedition to Naples, as best as I can recall, there was a Comte de Sourdis who accomplished marvelous feats at the Battle of Garigliano.”

“The battle that the knight Bayard managed to lose so effectively.”

“What do you think about Bayard, that ‘irreproachable and fearless’ knight?”

“That he deserved his good name, for he died as any true soldier must hope to die. Still, I don’t think much of all those sword-swingers; they were poor generals—Francis I was an idiot at Pavia and indecisive at Marignan. But let’s get back to your Sourdis family.”

“Well, at the time of Henri IV there was an Abbesse de Sourdis in whose arms Gabrielle expired; she was allied with the d’Estrée family. In addition, a Comte de Sourdis, serving under Louis XV, bravely led the charge of a cavalry regiment at Fontenoy. After that, I lose track of them in France; they probably went off to America. In Paris, they live behind the old Hôtel Sourdis on the square Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois. There is a tiny street named Sourdis that runs from the Rue d’Orleans to the Rue d’Anjou in the Marais district, and there’s the cul-de-sac called Sourdis off the Rue des Fossés-Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois. If I’m not mistaken, this particular Comtesse de Sourdis, who in passing I must say is very rich, has just bought a lovely residence on Quai Voltaire and is living there. Her house opens onto the Rue de Bourbon, and you can see it from the windows in the Marsan pavilion.”

“Perfect! That’s how I like to be answered. It seems to me that these de Sourdises are closely related to those living in Saint-Germain.”

“Not really. They are close relatives of Dr. Cabanis, who shares, as you know, our political religion. He is even the girl’s godfather.”

“That improves things. All those dowagers who live in Saint-Germain are not good company for Josephine.”

At that moment Bonaparte turned around and noticed the pedestal table. “Had I said that I would be having lunch here?” he asked.

“No,” Bourrienne answered, “but I thought it would be better if today you had lunch in your study.”

“And who will be doing me the honor of having lunch with me?”

“Someone I have invited.”

“Given the way I was feeling, you had to be very sure that the person would please me.”

“I was quite sure.”

“And who is it?”

“Someone who came from far away and arrived at the Tuileries while you were with George in the reception room.”

“I had no other meetings scheduled.”

“This person came without a scheduled meeting.”

“You know that I never receive anyone without a letter.”

“This person you will receive.”

Bourrienne got up, went to the officers’ room, and simply said, “The First Consul is back.”

At those words, a young man rushed into the First Consul’s study. Although he was only about twenty-five or twenty-six years old, he was wearing the casual clothes of a general. “Junot!” Bonaparte exclaimed joyously.

“By God, you were quite right to say that this man did not need a letter! Come here, Junot!” The young general did not hesitate, but when he tried to take Bonaparte’s hand and raise it to his lips, the First Consul opened his arms and pulled Junot tightly to his breast.

Among the many young officers who owed their careers to Bonaparte, Junot was one of those he loved the most. They had met during the siege of Toulon, when Bonaparte was commanding the battery of the sansculottes. He had asked for someone who could write beautifully, and Junot, stepping from the ranks, introduced himself. “Sit down there,” Bonaparte said, pointing to the battery’s breastwork, “and write what I dictate.” Junot of course obeyed.

He was just finishing the letter when a bomb, tossed by the English, exploded ten steps away and covered him with dirt. “Good!” said Junot with a laugh. “How convenient! We didn’t have any sand to blot the ink.” Those words made his fortune.

“Would you like to stay with me?” Bonaparte asked. “I shall take care of you.” And Junot answered, “With pleasure.” From the outset the two men understood each other.

When Bonaparte was named general, Junot became his aide-de-camp. When Bonaparte was placed on reserve duty, the two young men shared their poverty, living off the two or three hundred francs that Junot received each month from his family. After the 13th Vendémiaire, Bonaparte had two other aides-de-camp, Muiron and Marmont, but Junot remained his favorite.

Junot participated in the Egyptian campaign as a general. So, to his great regret, he had to part with Bonaparte. He performed feats of courage at the battle of Fouli, where he shot dead the leader of the enemy army with his pistol. When Bonaparte left Egypt, he wrote to Junot:

I am leaving Egypt, my dear Junot. You are too far away from where we are embarking for me to take you along with me. But I am leaving orders with Kléber for you to leave in October. Finally, wherever I am, whatever my position, please know that I will always give you proof positive of our close friendship.

Good-bye and best wishes,

Bonaparte

On his way back to France on an old cargo ship, Junot fell into the hands of the English. Since then, Bonaparte had heard no news of his friend, so Junot’s unexpected appearance created quite a stir in Bonaparte’s quarters.

“Well, finally you’re back!” exclaimed the First Consul. “I knew you idiotically let yourself be caught by the English by remaining so long in Egypt. What I don’t know is why you waited five months when I had asked you to leave as soon as possible.”

“Good heavens! Because Kléber would not let me leave. You have no idea how difficult he made things for me.”

“He no doubt feared that I’d have too many of my friends in my ranks. I know no love was lost between us, but I never thought he’d demonstrate his enmity in such a petty way. Plus, he wrote a letter to the Directory—do you know about that? What’s more,” Bonaparte added, raising his eyes heavenward, “his tragic end closed all our accounts, and both France and I have undergone a major loss. But the irreparable loss, my friend, is the loss of Desaix. Ah, Desaix! Such a grave misfortune to have smote our country.”

Totally absorbed in his pain, Bonaparte paced up and down a moment without saying a word. Then, suddenly, he stopped in front of Junot. “So, what do you want to do now? I have always said that I would furnish proof of my friendship when I could. What are your plans? Do you want to serve?”

Then, the look in his eyes difficult to read, Bonaparte asked jovially, “Would you like me to have you join the Rhine army?”

Junot cheeks grew flushed. “Are you trying to get rid of me?” he said. After a pause, he continued: “If such are your orders, I shall be happy to show General Moreau that the officers in the army of Italy have not forgotten their work in Egypt.”

“Well,” said the First Consul with a laugh, “my cart is getting before my horse! No, Monsieur Junot, no, you’ll not leave me. I admire General Moreau a great deal, but not so much that I would give him one of my best friends.” Then, his brow creased, he continued more seriously: “Junot, I’m going to give you command of Paris. It’s a position of trust, especially just now, and I could not make a better choice. But”—he glanced around as if he feared someone might be listening—“you must give it some thought before you accept. You’ll need to age ten years, because the position requires not only gravity and prudence to the extreme; it also demands the utmost attention to everything related to my safety.”

“General,” Junot exclaimed, “on that score.…”

“Silence, my friend, or at least speak more softly,” Bonaparte said. “Yes, you must watch over my safety. For I am surrounded by danger. If I were still simply the General Bonaparte I was before and even after the 13th Vendémiaire, I would make no effort to avoid danger. In those days my life was my own; I knew its worth, which was not very much. But now my life is no longer my own. I can say this only to a friend, Junot: My destiny has been revealed to me. It is the destiny of a great nation, and that is why my life is threatened. The powers that hope to invade France and divide it up would like to have me out of their way.”

Raising his hand to his brow as if he were trying to chase away a troublesome thought, he remained pensive for a moment. Then, his mind moving rapidly from one idea to another—he’d sometimes entertain twenty different ideas at once—Bonaparte resumed: “So, as I was saying, I shall name you commander of Paris. But you need to get married. That would be appropriate not only for the dignity of the position, but it is also in your own best interest. And by the way, be careful to marry only a rich woman.”

“Yes, but I would like her to be attractive as well. There’s the problem: All heiresses are as ugly as caterpillars.”

“Well, set to work immediately, for I am appointing you commander of Paris as of today. Look for an appropriate house, one not too far from the Tuileries, so that I can send for you whenever I need you. And look around; perhaps you can choose a woman from the circle in which Josephine and Hortense move. I would suggest Hortense herself, but I believe she loves Duroc, and I would not want to go against her own inclinations.”

“The First Consul is served!” said the steward, carrying in a tray.

“Let’s sit down,” said Bonaparte. “And in a week from now, you shall have rented a house and chosen a wife!”

“General,” said Junot, “while I don’t doubt I can find a house in a week, I would like to request two weeks for the wife.”

“Agreed,” said Bonaparte.