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Our dear sister can therefore plan her visit to Madame Bonaparte, and the sooner the better.
Please believe me your sincere friend,
J. Fouché
The next day, Madame la Comtesse de Sourdis presented herself in the Tuileries. She found Josephine radiant and Hortense in tears, for Hortense’s marriage with Louis Bonaparte was almost certain.
Josephine had realized the day before that, whatever mysterious reason lay behind it, her husband was in good humor, so she had asked to have him come see her on his return from the Conseil d’Etat.
But, when he got back, the First Consul had found Cambacérès waiting for him—he’d come to explain two or three articles of the code that Bonaparte had found to be not sufficiently clear—and the two of them had worked until quite late. Then Junot had shown up to announce his marriage with Mademoiselle de Permon.
News of this marriage pleased the First Consul far less than the one arranged for Mademoiselle de Sourdis. First of all, Bonaparte had himself been in love with Madame de Permon; in fact, before marrying Josephine, he had tried to marry her. But Madame de Permon had refused, and he still held a grudge. Furthermore, he had advised Junot to marry someone rich, and now Junot, on the contrary, was choosing a wife from a ruined family. His future wife, on her mother’s side, was descended from former emperors in the Orient and the girl, whom Junot had familiarly called Loulou, came from the Comnène family as well, but she had a dowry of only twenty-five thousand francs. Bonaparte promised Junot he would add one hundred thousand francs to the basket. Also, as governor of Paris, Junot could be guaranteed a salary of five hundred thousand francs. He would simply have to manage with that.
Josephine had meanwhile waited impatiently for her husband all evening. But he had dined with Junot, and then they had gone out together. Finally, at midnight, he had appeared in his dressing gown and with a scarf over his head, which meant he would not retire to his own rooms until the next morning. Josephine’s face had beamed with joy: Her long wait had been worth it. For it was during such visits that Josephine was able to solidify her power over Bonaparte. Never before had Josephine so insistently pressed her case for the marriage of Hortense to Louis. When he’d gone back up to his own rooms, the First Consul had very nearly agreed to the betrothal of his stepdaughter to his brother.
So, when Madame de Sourdis arrived, Josephine was eager to tell her of her good fortune. Claire was dispatched to console Hortense.
But Claire didn’t even try. She knew only too well how difficult it would have been for her herself to give up Hector. Instead, she wept with Hortense, and encouraged her to bring up the question with the First Consul as he surely loved her too much to consent to her unhappiness.
Suddenly a strange idea came to Hortense: She and Claire, with their mothers’ permission, should consult Mademoiselle Lenormand and have their fortunes told.
It was Mademoiselle de Sourdis who acted as ambassador, presenting to their mothers their wish and asking their permission to put it into execution. The negotiation was long, with Hortense listening at the door and trying to hold back her sobs.
Claire came joyously back. Permission was granted, on the condition that Mademoiselle Louise not leave the presence of the two girls even for a moment. Mademoiselle Louise, as we believe we have pointed out, was Madame Bonaparte’s principal maid, and Madame Bonaparte had complete confidence in her.
Mademoiselle Louise was given strict orders, and she swore on everything that was holy to do her duty. Heavily veiled, the two girls climbed into Madame de Sourdis’s carriage, which was a morning carriage without a coat of arms. The coachman was told to stop at number six, Rue de Tournon; he was not told whom they were going to see.
Mademoiselle Louise was the first to climb down from the carriage. She had her instructions, so she knew that Mademoiselle Lenormand lived in the back of the courtyard and to the left. She would then lead the girls up three steps and knock on the door to the right.
She knocked, and when she asked to come in, she and the two girls were led into a study off to one side, not generally open to the public.
They were informed that each girl would be received separately, because Mademoiselle Lenormand never worked with more than one person at the same time. The order in which they would be received would be determined by the first letter of their family name. Thus Hortense Bonaparte would be first. Still, she had to wait a half hour.
The arrangement greatly upset Mademoiselle Louise, for she had been ordered never to let the girls out of her sight. If she remained with Claire, she’d lose sight of Hortense. If she accompanied Hortense, she’d lose sight of Claire.
They took the question to Mademoiselle Lenormand, who found a way to reconcile the situation. Mademoiselle Louise would remain with Claire, but Mademoiselle Lenormand would leave the door of the study open so that the maid would be able to keep her eyes on Hortense. At the same time, she would be far enough away from Mademoiselle Lenormand that she would not be able to hear what the prophetess was saying.
Naturally, both girls had requested the grand set of cards. What Mademoiselle Lenormand saw in the cards for Hortense seemed to impress her greatly. Her gestures and facial expressions indicated growing astonishment. Finally, after she had again shuffled the cards well and carefully studied the girl’s palm, she stood up and spoke like one inspired. She pronounced just one sentence, which brought an incredulous expression to her subject’s face. In the face of Hortense’s pressing questions, she remained mute and refused to add a single word to her declaration, except to say: “The oracle has spoken; believe the oracle!”
The oracle signaled to Hortense that her time was up and summoned her friend.
Although it was Mademoiselle de Beauharnais who had proposed coming to consult Mademoiselle Lenormand, Claire, after what she had seen, was equally eager to learn her future. She hurried into the prophetess’s study. She had no idea that her future would astonish Mademoiselle Lenormand as much as had her friend’s.
With the confidence of a woman who believed in herself and hesitated to offer improbable utterances, Mademoiselle Lenormand read Claire’s cards three times. She studied Claire’s right hand, then the left, and in both palms she found a broken heart, the luck line cutting through the heart line and forking toward Saturn. In the same solemn tone she had assumed in her pronouncement for Mademoiselle de Beauharnais, she spoke her oracle for Mademoiselle de Sourdis. When Claire rejoined Mademoiselle Louise and Hortense, she was as pale as a corpse, and her eyes were filled with tears.
The two girls did not say one word further, did not ask a single question, so long as they were under Mademoiselle Lenormand’s roof. It was as if they feared that any utterance on their part might bring the house down around their heads. But, as soon as they were settled in the carriage and the coachman had started the horses off at a gallop, they both asked at the same time: “What did she tell you?”
Hortense, the first to be received, was the first to answer. “She said: ‘Wife of a king and mother of an emperor, you will die in exile.’”
“And what did she tell you?” Mademoiselle de Beauharnais asked eagerly.
“She said: ‘For fourteen years you will be the widow of a man who is still alive, and the rest of your life the wife of a dead man!’”
XXII In Which Mademoiselle de Beauharnais Becomes the Wife of a King without a Throne and Mademoiselle de Sourdis the Widow of a Living Husband (#ulink_cdad6d31-2543-5d05-8a30-bda1a41abbc1)
SIX WEEKS HAD PASSED since the two girls had visited the prophetess living on Rue de Tournon. Mademoiselle de Beauharnais had, in spite of her tears, married Louis Bonaparte, and that very same evening Mademoiselle de Sourdis had been going to sign her marriage contract with the Comte de Sainte-Hermine.
Mademoiselle de Beauharnais’s repugnance for her marriage might lead one to believe that she was repulsed by the First Consul’s brother. That was not the case at all. It was simply that she loved Duroc. Love is blind.
Louis Bonaparte was then about twenty-three or twenty-four years old. He was a handsome young man—in fact, he resembled his sister Caroline—though he appeared to be a little cold. He was well educated and had true literary instincts. Upright, kind, and very honest, he never for a minute presumed that the title of king in any way changed the rules and duties of the human conscience. He is perhaps the only prince who, reigning over a foreign people, elicited at least a bit of gratitude and love in his subjects, just as Desaix had done in upper Egypt. He was a just sultan.
Before we leave that loyal-hearted man and the charming creature he was marrying, let us say that the marriage happened suddenly, for no other reason than for Josephine’s incessant hounding.
“Duroc,” Josephine told Bourrienne, repeatedly, “would give me no support. Duroc owes everything to his friendship with Bonaparte, and he would never dare stand up to his protector’s brothers. On the other hand, Bonaparte has great fondness for Louis, who has not the slightest ambition and never will. For me, Louis will be a counterbalance to Joseph and Lucien.”
As for Bonaparte, he took this position with Bourrienne: “Duroc and Hortense love each other. Whatever my wife might do, they are a good fit and shall marry. As for me, I am fond of Duroc; he comes from a good family. After all, I gave Caroline to Murat and Pauline to Leclerc. So I can surely give Hortense to Duroc, for he’s a fine man, as good as they come. As he is now a major general, there is no reason to oppose this marriage. Besides, I have something else in mind for Louis.”
However, the same day the girls went to consult Mademoiselle Lenormand, Hortense, urged on by her friend, tried to enlist, and ensure, the support of her stepfather one more time. After dinner, finding herself alone with Bonaparte, she knelt down gracefully at his feet, and using all her feminine charms on the First Consul, she told him that the proposed union between her and Louis would mean her eternal unhappiness, and while giving full justice to Louis’s virtues, she repeated that she loved only Duroc and that Duroc alone could make her happy.
Bonaparte made a decision.
“Fine,” he said. “Since you insist on marrying him, marry him you will, but I warn you that I must set some conditions. If Duroc accepts them, then all is well. But if he refuses, then this is the last time I shall go against Josephine’s wishes on this subject, and you will become Louis’s wife.”
Walking briskly, as he did when he had made a decision, in spite of any unpleasantness his decision might provoke, Bonaparte went to Duroc’s office but failed to find him, the eternal idler, at his post. “Where is Duroc?” he asked, visibly upset.
“He has gone out,” Bourrienne answered.
“Where do you think he might be?”
“At the Opera.”
“Tell him, as soon as he returns, that I have promised him to Hortense, that he will marry her. But I want the wedding to take place in two days at the latest. I shall give him five hundred thousand francs. I shall name him commander of the eighth military division. He will leave for Toulon the day after his wedding, and we shall live separately as I do not want a son-in-law in my house. I do want to have this matter settled once and for all, so tell me this evening if he is in agreement.”
“I don’t believe he will be,” said Bourrienne.
“Then she shall marry Louis.”
“Is she willing?”
“She has no choice but to be willing.”
At ten, on Duroc’s return, Bourrienne communicated the First Consul’s intentions. But Duroc shook his head. “The First Consul does me a great honor,” he said, “but I shall never marry a woman under such conditions. I prefer now to take a stroll near Palais-Royal.”
With that, Duroc picked up his hat, and with no apparent concern he left. His attitude, to Bourrienne’s eye, only served to prove that Hortense was mistaken about the intensity of the feelings the First Consul’s aide-de-camp had, or pretended to have, for her.
The wedding of Mademoiselle de Beauharnais and Louis Bonaparte took place in the little house on Rue Chantereine. A priest came to bless their union. At the same time Bonaparte had him bless Madame Murat’s marriage.
Far from occasioning the sad atmosphere that had hung over poor Hortense’s wedding, Mademoiselle de Sourdis’s wedding held every promise of light and joy. The two lovebirds, who were apart only between eleven at night and two in the afternoon, spent all the rest of their time together. The most elegant merchants, the most popular jewelers in Paris, had been ransacked by Hector to produce a collection of wedding presents worthy of his fiancée. The opulent offerings were the talk of Parisian high society; Madame de Sourdis had even received letters from people who wanted to view them in person.
Madame de Sourdis had been expecting no more than a simple agreement from the First Consul and Madame Bonaparte, so she was in a tizzy about the favor he had bestowed upon her by proposing to come and sign the marriage contract himself. It was a favor he granted only to his closest friends, for it was of necessity followed by a gift of money or a present, and the First Consul, not a stingy man but by nature more thrifty than generous, did not spend money like water.
The only person less than pleased with the honor was Hector de Sainte-Hermine. Bonaparte’s show of honoring his fiancée’s family worried him. Younger than his brothers, he had never embraced the Royalist cause as actively as they had, but in spite of his admiration for the First Consul’s genius, Hector had not reached the point where he truly liked him. He could not put out of his mind his brother’s brave but painful death and all the bloody details that accompanied it, or the fact that it was the First Consul who had ordered it and who, in spite of strong pleading, had refused to grant a reprieve or pardon. So every time he met Bonaparte, he felt his face begin to sweat and his knees weaken, and against his own will he would avert his eyes. He feared one thing only, and that was to be forced some day, by his high rank or his great fortune, either to serve in the army or to go into exile. He had warned Claire that he would rather leave France than accept any position in the army or civil service. Claire had said it was totally up to him, that in such an event he should do what he needed to do. All she had demanded of her fiancé was that he would allow her to accompany him wherever he might go. That promise was all her tender, loving heart needed.
Claude-Antoine Régnier, who since then became Duke of Massa, had been named chief judge and prefect of the police. He worked in concert with Junot, now governor of Paris, as well as with Bonaparte himself and his aide-de-camp, Duroc. On the day that Bonaparte was to sign Mademoiselle de Sourdis’s marriage contract, he spent an hour with Régnier, for the news recently had been disturbing. Once again the Vendée and Brittany were in upheaval. It did not appear this time to be civil war; rather, shadowy bands of incendiaries were traveling from farm to farm and from chateau to chateau, where they were forcing farmers and proprietors to give them their money and then torturing them most atrociously. The newspapers were reporting instances of poor souls whose hands and feet had been burned to the bone.
In an order written to Régnier, Bonaparte had asked the prefect to gather all the files relating to this business of burnings. Five such events had been confirmed within the past week: The first, in Berric, where the Sulé River takes its source; the second, in Plescop; the third, in Muzillac; the fourth, in Saint-Nolff; the fifth, at Saint-Jean-de-Brévelay. There appeared to be three leaders at the head of the roving bands, but some superior officer no doubt was in control of them all. And that officer, if one were to believe the police agents, was Cadoudal himself. One could only conclude that he had not kept his word to Bonaparte; that instead of withdrawing to England as he had promised, he was fomenting a new uprising in Brittany.
Bonaparte, who normally was correct in his assumption that he could read a man’s character well, shook his head when the chief judge tried to lay on Cadoudal the despicable crimes they were trying now to solve. How could that be possible? That sharp mind that had discussed with Bonaparte, without giving an inch, the interests of peoples and their kings; that pure conscience content to live in England on his own family’s wealth; that heart without ambition who turned down the position of aide-de-camp to the most important general in Europe; that unselfish soul who refused one hundred thousand francs per year to stand by and watch while lesser men tore each other apart—how could a man like that have lowered himself to such a vile activity as burning, the most cowardly act of banditry of all?
Totally impossible!
And Bonaparte had forcefully said as much to his new prefect of police. He had then given orders for the most skillful agents with broad powers to leave Paris and pursue relentlessly the conscienceless murderers. Régnier promised to send the best of his men to Brittany that very day.
By then, it was already almost ten in the evening, and Bonaparte sent word to Josephine that they would be leaving shortly to visit Madame de Sourdis and the young couple.
The countess’s magnificent hotel was gleaming with light. The day had been warm and sunny, and the first flowers and leaves were beginning to break out of their cottony prisons. The warm spring breezes danced in the flowering lilacs that seemed to forest the garden from the castle windows to the terrace along the quay. Beneath those intriguingly scented canopies, colored lamps were burning, and whiffs of perfume and snatches of song wafted from the open windows, while on the drawn curtains the guests cast moving shadows.
Among the guests were the most elegant people in Paris. There were the government officials, that marvelous staff of generals, the oldest of whom was no more thirty-five: Murat, Marmont, Junot, Duroc, Lannes, Moncey, Davout—already heroes at an age when one is normally only a captain. There were poets: Lemercier, still proud of the recent success of his Agamemnon; Chénier, who had written Timoléon, then given up theater and thrown himself into politics; Chateaubriand, who had just discovered God at Niagara Falls and in the depths of America’s virgin forests. There were famous dancers without whom grand balls could not be held: Trénis, Laffitte, Dupaty, Garat, Vestris. And there were the new century’s splendid stars who had appeared in the East: Madame Récamier, Madame Méchin, Madame de Contades, Madame Regnault de Saint-Jean-d’Angély. Finally, there was the brilliant young crowd, made up of men like Caulaincourt, Narbonne, Longchamp, Matthieu de Montmorency, Eugène de Beauharnais, and Philippe de Ségur.
From the moment the word got out that the First Consul and Madame Bonaparte not only were attending the wedding celebration but also would be signing the marriage contract, all society sought an invitation. Guests filled the ground floor and the first story of Madame de Sourdis’s spacious hotel, and they spread out onto the terraces, there to seek relief from the hot, stuffy rooms in the cool evening air.
At quarter to eleven, a mounted escort was seen leaving the Tuileries gates, with each man carrying a torch. Once they had crossed the bridge, the First Consul’s carriage, rolling at a triple gallop, surrounded by torches, swept by in the thunder of hoofbeats and a whirlwind of sparks before it disappeared into the hotel courtyard.
In the midst of a crowd so dense that it seemed impossible for anyone to penetrate, a passage magically opened and, inside the ballroom, widened into a circle that allowed Madame de Sourdis and Claire to approach the First Consul and Josephine. Hector de Sainte-Hermine walked behind Claire and her mother, and though he paled visibly on seeing Bonaparte, he nonetheless stood nobly before him.
Madame Bonaparte embraced Mademoiselle de Sourdis and placed on her arm a pearl necklace worth fifty thousand francs. Bonaparte greeted the two women, then moved toward Hector. Not suspecting that Bonaparte indeed meant to address him, Hector began to step aside. But Bonaparte stopped to face him.
“Monsieur,” said Bonaparte, “if I had not been afraid you would refuse it, I would have brought a gift for you as well, an appointment to the consular guard. But I understand that some wounds need time to heal.”
“For such cures, General, no one has a more skillful hand than you. However.…” Hector sighed and raised his handkerchief to his eyes. “Excuse me, General,” said the young man, after a pause. “I would like to be more worthy of your kindness.”
“That is what comes from having too much heart, young man,” said Bonaparte. “It is always the heart that suffers.”
Turning again to Madame de Sourdis, the First Consul exchanged a few words with her, and complimented Claire. Then he noticed Vestris.
“Oh, there’s young Vestris,” he said. “He lately did me a kindness for which I shall be eternally grateful. He was coming back to perform at the Opera after a short illness, and the performance happened to fall on a day that I was having a reception at the Tuileries. He changed his performance date so as not to conflict with my reception.… Come, Monsieur Vestris, please demonstrate your inimitable courteousness by asking two of these ladies to dance a gavotte for us.”
“Citizen First Consul,” answered this son to the god of dance in an Italian accent that the family had never been able to eradicate, “we are pleased to have just the dance for you, a gavotte I composed for Mademoiselle de Coigny. Madame Récamier and Mademoiselle de Sourdis dance it like angels. All we need is a harp and a horn,” he said, rolling his “r”s, “if Mademoiselle de Sourdis is willing to play the tambourine as she dances. As for Madame Récamier, you know that she is unbeatable in the shawl dance.”
“Come, my ladies,” said the First Consul. “You surely cannot refuse the request that Monsieur Vestris has made and which I support with all my power.”
Mademoiselle de Sourdis would have been happy to escape the ovation given to her, but once her dancing master Vestris had chosen her, and after the First Consul had added his bidding, she did not wait to be asked again.
She was dressed perfectly for this dance. Her white dress, accented by her dark skin, had two clusters of grapes on the shoulders, while grape leaves in reddish autumn colors ran the length of her gown. She also wore grape leaves in her hair.
Madame Récamier was wearing her customary white dress and her red Indian cashmere shawl. The creator of the shawl dance, which had so successfully been taken from the ballroom to the theater, Madame Récamier performed her invention with no want of modesty yet without a hint of constraint as no theater bayadère or professional actress has demonstrated since. Beneath the undulations of the supple cashmere cloth, she was able to reveal her charms at the same time she was pretending to hide them.
The dance lasted nearly a quarter of an hour and ended in a crescendo of applause, to which the First Consul added his own. At his signal, the entire room exploded in bravos. Amidst the boisterous praise, Vestris seemed to be walking on air as he took full credit for all that poetry of form and movement, of expression and attitude.
Once the gavotte had finished, a servant in livery whispered a few words to the Comtesse de Sourdis, to which she responded, “Open the drawing room.”
Two doors slid open, and in the marvelously elegant drawing room, brightly lit, two men of the law were seated at a table lit by two candelabras, between which the marriage contract was awaiting the signatures with which it would soon be honored. The only people authorized to enter the drawing room were the twenty or so who would be signing the contract, which would first be read aloud for the benefit of the other wedding guests.
As the contract was being read, a second lackey in livery entered. As unobtrusively as he could, he slipped over to the Comte de Sainte-Hermine and in a whisper said, “Monsieur le Chevalier de Mahalin asks to speak to you at this very moment.”
“Have him wait,” said Sainte-Hermine, who was standing attendant in the small study at one side of the drawing room.
“Monsieur le Comte, he says that he must see you at this very instant. Even if you were to have the pen in your hand, he would request that you lay it down on the table and come to see him before you sign … oh, there he is at the door.”
With what looked like a gesture of despair, the count joined the Chevalier outside the drawing room. Few people noticed the discreet exit, and those who did were unaware of its unfortunate significance.
After the contract had been read, Bonaparte, always in a hurry to finish what was under way, as eager to leave the Tuileries when he was there as he was to return when he was out, picked up the pen that was lying on the table. Without wondering whether he should be the first to sign, he hastily placed his signature on the contract, and then, just as four years later he would take the crown from the pope’s hands and place it himself on Josephine’s head, he handed his wife the pen.
Josephine signed, then passed the pen to Mademoiselle de Sourdis, who instinctively looked around worriedly, but in vain, for the Comte de Sainte-Hermine. Filled with anxiety, she signed her name and tried to hide her concern. But it was the Comte’s turn next to sign.
A murmur disturbed the drawing room as heads turned in search of the bridegroom. Soon there was no choice but to call out for him. Only there was no answer.
For a long moment, in surprised silence, the guests looked at each other, all of them, wondering what could have happened to the count at the very moment his presence was indispensable and his absence a complete lapse of etiquette.
Finally someone mentioned that during the reading of the contract, a young well-dressed stranger had appeared in the dorway to the drawing room and had exchanged a few whispered words with the count before leading him off, more like his executioner than his friend.
Still, the count might not have left the house. Madame de Sourdis rang for a servant and ordered him to organize a search for the absent bridegroom. For several minutes, amidst the buzz of six hundred stunned wedding guess, servants could be heard calling out to each other from one floor to the next.
Then one of the servants thought to ask the coachmen out in the courtyard if they had seen two young men. Several of them had, as it happened. They’d noticed that one of the young men had been hatless in spite of the rain. They reported that the two men had rushed down the steps and leaped into a carriage, shouting, “To the stagecoach house!” and the carriage had galloped off. One of the coachmen was certain he had recognized the young man without a hat: It was the Comte de Sainte-Hermine.
The guests looked at each other in stupefaction. Then, out of the silence, they heard a voice shout: “The carriage and escort for the First Consul!” They all respectfully allowed Monsieur and Madame Bonaparte, along with Madame Louis Bonaparte, to pass. And as soon as they had left, pandemonium struck.
Everyone rushed from the elegant rooms of Madame de Sourdis’s grand house as if there were a fire.
Neither Madame de Sourdis nor Claire, however, had any inclination to stop them. Fifteen minutes later they found themselves alone.
Madame de Sourdis, with a painful cry, rushed to her daughter’s side. Claire was trembling, about to faint. “Oh, Mother, Mother!” she cried, bursting into sobs as she collapsed into the countess’s arms, “it is just what the prophetess predicted! My widowhood has begun.”
XXIII The Burning Brigades (#ulink_24a484af-84cc-58a9-9575-326681d3c631)
WE SHOULD EXPLAIN why Mademoiselle de Sourdis’s fiancé disappeared so incomprehensibly just as the marriage contract was to be signed. For the guests, his disappearance was the cause for surprise; for the countess, it prompted all sorts of speculations, each new one more improbable than the last. For her daughter, it elicited incessant tears.
We have seen that Fouché summoned the Chevalier de Mahalin to his office the day before news of his dismissal was to be publicly announced. Hoping to get back his ministry, Fouché then planned with Mahalin the organization of burning brigades in the West.
The bands of incendiaries had soon begun to appear, and already they had left their mark. Scarcely two weeks after the Chevalier had left Paris, it was learned that two landowners had been burned, one in Buré and the other in Saulnaye. Again, terror was spreading throughout the Morbihan.
For five years civil war had raged in that unfortunate region, but even in the midst of its most horrible outrages against humanity, never had such banditry as this been practiced. To find robbery and torture of the kind that accompanied these burnings, one had to go back to the worst days of Louis XV and to the horrors of religious discrimination under Louis XIV.
Terror came in bands of ten, fifteen, or twenty men who seemed to rise out of the earth and move like shadows over the land, following ravines, leaping across stiles; and any peasants who had ventured out late in the night had to hide behind trees or throw themselves facedown behind hedges, or else fall prey to the brigands. Then, suddenly, through a half-open window or a poorly closed door, they would burst into some farmhouse or chateau and, taking the servants by surprise, bind them up. Next, they would light a fire in the middle of the kitchen; they’d drag the master or mistress of the house over to it and lay their victim down on the floor with his feet to the flames until pain forced him to reveal where his money was hidden. Sometimes they would then free their prisoner. Other times, once they’d got the money, if they feared they might be identified, they would stab, hang, or bludgeon to death the unfortunate they had robbed.
After the third or fourth episode of that kind, after the authorities had indeed confirmed the fires and murders, the rumor began to spread, at first secretly, then quite openly, that Cadoudal himself strode at the head of those gangs. The brigands and their leader always wore masks, but some who had seen the largest of the bands stalk through the night were sure they had recognized the leader as George Cadoudal—by his size, by his bearing, and especially by his large round head.
This was difficult to believe. How could George Cadoudal, who acted so honorably in all things, have suddenly become the contemptible chief of a shameless, pitiless burning brigade?
