Читать книгу The Last Love - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 31
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ОглавлениеNapoleon was late in arriving for the ceremony that evening at No. 3 Rue d’Antin. He was so late, in fact, that all of those present were beginning to wonder. What had happened to this man of infallible punctuality? Had he changed his mind? Had his appointment been unexpectedly revoked at the War Department?
The mayor of Paris was there, fast asleep in a comfortable chair in the reception room, his muffled snores rising to a ceiling of gold with a frieze on which the heroes of mythology disported themselves in the broadest of colors. Josephine had been prompt in her arrival. One witness later stated that she was wearing a semitransparent tunic but the others represented her as attired in charming taste. A M. Camelot was there to assist M. Raguideau in acting for her. Barras and Tallien had come to sign as witnesses for the young general and, as the time passed, both men displayed much impatience over the tardiness of the groom. Barras smiled as he placed a consolatory hand on Josephine’s arm but he frowned angrily as he whispered in Tallien’s ear.
They had assembled at eight o’clock but it was not until ten that the bridegroom put in an appearance. His brow wore a frown, his hair was awry. Under one arm he carried a large sheaf of loose documents. Junot, who accompanied him, carried papers under both arms.
“My humblest apologies,” said Napoleon, addressing himself to the bride.
“What reason can you give for this extraordinary delay?” demanded Barras.
“The stupidity of officers in the War Department, M’sieur Director,” explained Napoleon. “I have been delayed and bedeviled by stupid little place holders who have no conception of the supplies needed. We have been debating matters at bitter length which could have been settled in a few minutes.”
“If the debates had lasted five minutes longer, m’sieur le général,” declared Josephine, “you would not have found a bride waiting for you.”
“That you endured this delay, my gracious one, will remain in my memory forever.”
The papers were ready for their signature. Perhaps never before had such lack of worldly goods been mutually affirmed. Napoleon had only his uniforms and his books to declare. Josephine had her clothes and nothing else. Despite this proof of poverty, the usual clauses had been included to cover eventualities, such as the death of either contracting party.
“Who is getting the worst of this?” whispered Barras in Tallien’s ear.
The notary Raguideau seemed thoroughly unhappy about one point. His brows drew together in disapproval as he pointed to the ages set down. Napoleon had added two years to his age and Josephine had subtracted four from hers. This had brought them to a parity at twenty-eight.
“This,” he said in a whisper to the contracting parties, “is a very great mistake. A very great mistake indeed. It invalidates the marriage. Do you realize that?”
The mayor had wakened up and was listening with both ears, so Napoleon replied in equally low tones. “My birth is recorded in Corsica. My wife’s can be obtained only in Martinique. A long distance separates them, m’sieur le notary. No one will ever be in a position to discover the error.”
M. Raguideau shook his head impatiently. “It may seem a small matter but it could place you in jeopardy later. Suppose, for instance, that you attain a high post in the state, high enough so that everything about you will be subject to curiosity and scrutiny? Suppose that some busybody discovers the mistake in the figures and runs all over Paris with it? My dear general, and you, madame, you must be wise and allow me to correct them.”
Napoleon brushed the matter aside. He knew that Josephine felt a deep reluctance to avow her real age. Perhaps if he had known that on a memorable day in the future he would sit on a throne and be crowned emperor of France, and that Josephine would be beside him, he would have realized the wisdom of what the lawyer proposed. It would prove no light matter then to cover up the discrepancy in the dates. Much diplomatic chicanery would be required.
That was something for the future and nothing to bother about on this wonderful evening when his Josephine was placing her future in his hands. He laughed and whispered to her, “Do you see any need to worry about this?” She smiled as she answered: “Is there a mistake? I am certain my age is correctly stated.”
So they joined hands and swore to their desire to be made man and wife. Nothing else was necessary under the new laws recently enacted. Napoleon scratched his signature on the document in an illegible hand.
An immediate problem now had to be faced. “Dearest wife,” said the young general, “my quarters are filled with officers and clerks. Not to mention piles of correspondence and maps. And saddles. I am afraid I cannot ask you to accompany me there.”
“My dear Napoleoni,” said Josephine. “I have seen your rooms. It never entered my head that we might go there. Have you any objections to my little place on the Rue Chantereine?”
“None!” he declared fervently.
“We will have no officers or clerks there. Not a single document or map. And certainly no saddles. The only one to dispute possession with you will be—Fortuné!”
“Ah!” said Napoleon. “I begin to foresee certain difficulties!”
No supper was served. Barras kissed the bride’s hand, bowed ironically to Napoleon, and took his departure in an imposing state coach. A barouche had been provided for the newly married pair in which they rode to the Rue Chantereine.
