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“One hundred thousand francs a year, monsieur,” Bonaparte answered.
“If you can give one hundred thousand francs a year to a simple partisan leader, how much will you give the prince he has been fighting for?”
“Nothing, sir,” said Bonaparte disdainfully. “In your case, what I’m paying for is your courage, not the principles that drive you. I would like to prove that for me, a self-made man, men exist by their works alone. Please accept, George. I beg you.”
“And if I refuse?” asked George.
“You’ll be making a mistake.”
“Will I nonetheless be free to journey wherever I want?”
Bonaparte went to the door and opened it.
“Duroc!” he called.
Duroc appeared.
“Please make sure,” he said, “that Monsieur Cadoudal and his two friends can move around Paris as freely as if they were in Muzillac. And if they would like passports for any country in the world, Fouché has been ordered to provide them.”
“Your word is enough for me, Citizen First Consul,” said Cadoudal, bowing once more. “I shall be leaving this evening.”
“Might I ask where you’ll be going?”
“To London, General.”
“So much the better.”
“Why so much the better?”
“Because there you’ll see up close the men you’ve been fighting for, and once you’ve seen them.…”
“Yes?”
“Well, you will compare them to those you’ve been fighting against. However, once you’re out of France, Colonel.…” Bonaparte paused.
“I’m waiting,” said Cadoudal.
“Please don’t come back without letting me know. If you do not let me know, you must not be surprised to be treated as an enemy.”
“That will be an honor for me, General, since by treating me thus you prove that I am a man to be feared.”
George said goodbye to the First Consul and withdrew.
The next day the newspapers read:
Following the meeting George Cadoudal had obtained with the First Consul, he asked permission to withdraw freely to England.
He was granted permission on the condition that he would not return to France without the government’s authorization.
George Cadoudal promised to release his men from their oath. As long as he fought, they were committed to support him; by retreating, he has freed them from their obligations to him.
And indeed, on the very evening of his meeting with the First Consul, George was writing in his own hand a letter to his cohorts in every part of France.
Because a protracted war seems to be a misfortune for France and ruin for my region, I free you from your oath of loyalty to me. I shall never call you back unless the French government should fail to keep the promise it gave to me and that I accepted in your name.
If there should happen to be some treason hidden beneath a hypocritical peace, I would not hesitate to call once more on your fidelity, and your fidelity, I am sure, would respond.
George Cadoudal
IX Two Companions at Arms (#ulink_1726a8cc-97f0-5040-b7ea-2c39f7171d98)
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.”
