Chapter 10: The Last Words of Napoleon
“Tousteau, what is this you have handed me?”
“Georges, if you would take your mind off the women of Italy for one minute, you could find out for yourself.” It was still quite early in the morning. The other soldiers seated about the campfire were yawning. Georges positioned his rear end toward the fire. The warmth of the flames gave him the encouragement needed to examine Tousteau’s note.
“Oh horseshit,” grumbled Georges. “It’s another proclamation.” As he stood now beside the fire the sun crept over the horizon, lighting the encampment.
“Soldiers!” the proclamation read, “you have in fifteen days’ time gained six victories, taken twenty-one standards, fifty-five pieces of cannon, secured many strong places; and you have conquered the richest part of Piedmont. In fifteen days you have taken fifteen thousand prisoners and killed or wounded another ten thousand men. Hitherto you had fought on sterile rocks, illustrious indeed in your courage, but to no avail. Now you have won battles without cannon; traversed rivers without the aid of bridges; made forced marches without shoes; bivouacked without bread. Only the armies of the Republic, the soldiers of Liberty, are capable of such service. And yet, soldiers, you cannot rest until Turin and Milan are safely in your hands. I have been told there are some of you whose courage is failing, who wish to return to the summits of the Alps. No! I cannot believe it. The conquerors of Dego, of Montenolte, of Millesimo, of Mondovi, burn to carry still further the glories of France. But I will lead you to conquest on one condition only: you must protect the people whom you liberate and repress all acts of lawless violence.” Hm, said Georges to himself, That sounds like two conditions to me. Should you not” – the text continued – “fulfill this condition, you would be not deliverers but the scourge of nations. People of Italy!” Here Georges broke out viva voce so as to share the proclamation with his comrades – “‘People of Italy! The French Army advances to liberate you. Be sure that your property, your religion, your customs will be respected.’”
“But what about the women, Georges?” Tousteau inquired.
“Tousteau,” Georges replied with mock-seriousness, “you should know that I have the highest regard for Italian women.” His words were met by a volley of chuckles on the part of the men assembled about the fire.
“Well, I can tell you one thing,” said Jacques Varlett, taking a seat next to Georges. “We fought for Sardinia and I say the Sardinians deserved the freedom we’ve won for them. Banish the nobles! Banish the King!”
“What you say makes sense,” Tousteau replied, reflectively, “But there’s no changing what has already been done.”
“I suppose you are right.” Varlett paused for a moment to sniff the air. “Tousteau,” he said, “do you smell something cooking? It smells like pork.”
“Yes, by Georges, I do, now that you mention it. It’s cabbage, or . . . or . . . by God, it’s Georges’ uniform!”
“Holy mother, it is!” cried Georges, striking at his rear with his hat.
“Here now,” interjected a veteran officer, “what’s all the excitement?”
“Georges,” explained Varlett, “was trying his hand at fixing us some breakfast.”
“I see.” The officer observed Georges’ smoldering rump. Then, stroking his beard, he replied, “I don’t believe I’ll join you for breakfast, but if you’ll be so kind as to share your fire . . . ”
“Yes,” said one of the men, “please do,” and made room for the officer.
“You know,” said the officer, as he seated himself and began warming his hands, “Napoleon has granted an armistice for the Duke of Parma.” This was news to everyone. Varlett, in some ways the most thoughtful of the three, directly inquired, “At what price, sir, was the Armistice bought?”
“Napoleon, they say, received five hundred thousand in silver, sixteen hundred artillery horses, and supplies of corn; and there was also, as I understand, the matter of twenty works of art.” Tousteau rubbed his ears.
“Please excuse me for asking, but did you say works of art?”
“Yes, I did,” the officer replied. “One of them, so the rumor goes, is the statue of a saint, and of great worth to the Duke.”
“How much?” asked Varlett.
“That,” said the officer, is the very point I was leading to. The Duke offered to buy back the statue for two hundred thousand.”
“Well then,” Georges interrupted, “France is so much the richer!” The officer curled a whisker about his index finger.
“Napoleon did not accept the money,” he said flatly.
“Remarkable,” Varlett mused. “Truly remarkable.”
“This much,” proffered the officer, “is for certain. There is only one man who conducts war in such a manner.”
“Napoleon must have offered a reason for his refusal,” said Tousteau.
“He did, and in these words.” The officer paused to be sure of the men’s attention: “‘Money is spent quickly, but a masterpiece will adorn our capital for all ages.’”
Wait a minute! Hold everything! Who are these people? Who is this Georges, and the other two? What do they look like? How old are they? These are only a few of the questions I’m sure the reader is posing. Please forgive me for my lapse. The sole excuse I can offer is a weak one: these people are so familiar to me that they may as well be my childhood friends. I had forgot, reader, that you and I are mere acquaintances. Georges’ full name, then, is Georges d’Roux. A young man, his age and appearance remind us of Dumas’ youthful hero, except that Georges' muscles are not as developed as those of the proud d’Artagnan. So much for literary references. Pierre is Tousteau’s first name. His father, a farmer, did not sanction his son’s enlistment (Pierre was thought too useful around the farm to be lost in a war). Pierre joined the grenadiers in search of fame and adventure. His dark hair and complexion most women find alluring. But for most women his hair and complexion are, of course, inaccessible. And that is so on account of his ideal of true and perfect love, which places him above the reach of mere mortals. Jacques Varlett, you might say, is the most perplexing of the threesome. At times he borders on intellectual brilliance. At other times you would hardly think him capable of lacing his own boots. Before he joined the army, Jacques studied to be a concert pianist. Bright seemed the prospects for his career, until the woman he loved, having been seduced by a young army officer, refused Jacques’ proposal. I believe that takes care of everyone. Except perhaps for myself. Suffice it to say that I am a Patriot of the Revolution.
“Tell me, Tousteau. What lies between us and the Austrians?”
“If I’m not mistaken, Varlett, it’s the river we are marching beside.”
“Correct. Now, if we are to engage the bastards, where must we be?”
“On the other side of the river,” Georges replied.
“Very good, Georges. Here’s a problem for you both. If the Austrians occupy the other side of the Po, and to do battle with them we must be over there, what should we do?”
“Cross the fucking river,” Georges exclaimed.
“Now, gentlemen, here comes the second part of the problem. How do we accomplish this feat?” Tousteau considered the question carefully. Then, pointing up the road, he surmised:
“We must be marching to a place where we can cross.”
“Indeed we are, Tousteau.”
“Any fool can see that,” complained Georges.
“Yes, it should be obvious to any simpleton, even, say, to” – Varlett scratched his nose, leaving Tousteau and Georges hanging with anticipation – “even, say, to the Austrians. But, gentlemen, we shall never see the Austrians upstream.”
“And why not?” asked Georges.
“For the simple reason that we won’t be there. Come nightfall, mark me, we’ll have changed our course, and by morning we’ll have crossed the Po.”
“Varlett, you’re either a magician or a madman,” Tousteau marveled.
To the Executive Directory
May 9, 1796
After having made many marches, along with various other military and diplomatic moves, all conceived to mislead the enemy into thinking that I intended to cross at Valenza, I proceeded with 5,000 grenadiers and 1,500 cavalry by forced march to Castel-San-Giovanni. Major Andréossy, Adjutant General Fiontin and a hundred cavalrymen, following the banks of the Po as far as Piacenza, there seized five boats laden with rice, 500 wounded, and all the enemy’s medical supplies.
We reached the Po at 9:00 am, opposite Piacenza. Before two squadrons of hussars could oppose our crossing, we threw ourselves into the boats gathered on our trip downstream and raced to the other side.
The crossing of the Po has been one of the most significant operations of this campaign.
Bonaparte
To Mlle de Villenois
May
Mademoiselle,
The Austrians are on the retreat! Upon crossing the great river, which had separated us from the enemy, we fought in a town by the name of Fombio. There we drove the Austrians from the windows and other hiding places where they were firing upon us. We took thousands of prisoners and mortally wounded many more. The fighting did not stop at Fombio. Since we had them running, we kept them running, all the way to a small town by the name of Lodi. Here it was I realized that our leader is a man whose skill and bravery are without parallel. I mean General Bonaparte. The name has an Italian ring to it, don’t you think?
For the past several nights I have had a pleasant dream. In my dream I feel you in my arms. Here is a kiss for your heart, my darling.
Georges
Having passed through the center of Lodi, our three friends find themselves again on the banks of a river opposite the enemy. This tributary, though not as “significant” as the great river Po (being only two hundred yards wide), its crossing is nevertheless as perilous, if not more so. For, on the opposite bank, joined to the near bank by a wooden bridge, stands the main body of the Austrian Army, strongly entrenched.
“Georges, who is that lurking behind a statue down by the river?” asked Tousteau. Peeping around a small wall which sheltered the three of them, Georges took a look.
“It looks like an officer.”
“Yea, it’s General Bonaparte himself,” observed Varlett.
“What the hell is he doing out there?” Georges grimaced.
“I suspect he’s studying the situation with that telescope he has in his hand,” Varlett replied.
“Yes, but don’t you think . . .” As Tousteau was about to suggest that the general make his study on safer ground, the Austrians let loose with a round of cannon fire.
“My God, the statue’s been hit!” Georges exclaimed.
“Is he all right?”
“What happened?”
“Nothing, not a goddam thing,” answered Georges.
“You know,” added Tousteau, “I think that must have been the statue of a saint.”
“Please notice,” said Varlett cool-headedly, “that the statue lies in ruins. But beside it” – all three men now noticed Bonaparte moving about uninjured – “is the true saint, a man dusting his trousers.”
Several hours have passed. It is now twilight. Our companions have remained safely behind their little stone wall. In the interval, Pierre and Georges have discussed many topics. Pierre has boasted about his drinking capacity and his virility. Georges has insisted that it’s not the quantity of sex but the quality that matters. Varlett, through it all, has sat patiently, awaiting an opportunity to relate one of his favorite anecdotes. It concerns the young Mozart. During a pause in the action he begins:
“It seems that once, when the famous composer was barely old enough to walk, his parents gave a large party. The tender Wolfgang had retired early, but the festivities continued late into the night. Round about midnight someone sat down to play a sonata on the cembalo. The fellow played on, reaching the end of the piece, but before he could strike the final chord he was suddenly called away. The young Mozart, who had been awakened by the sound of music, rushed downstairs in his piano to play a chord, thereby giving the resolution.”
“You men there, come with me!” It was the voice of a brash officer. Varlett, Georges and Tousteau arose and followed. Before long they had reached the town square, where they joined a few thousand other soldiers crowding the cobbled streets, which were full of the usual dress stores, bakeries and wine shops.
“Wait here,” said the officer. He had left them not more than thirty paces from a small group of generals, huddled about a central figure. They appeared to be discussing tactics.
“Why do you suppose – ,” said Tousteau.
“Shhh, quiet,” Georges interrupted. “You see that man in the middle?”
“Yeah, so what?” replied Tousteau.
“That’s General Bonaparte! Let’s see what they’re talking about,” said Georges, edging forward.
“Gentlemen, what is it that you advise?” asked Bonaparte, folding his arms against his chest.
“Sir,” I believe I speak for everyone, when I say that it is impossible,” an older officer volunteered.
“Monsieur,” replied Bonaparte, “the word ‘impossible’ is not French.”
“Sir, said a crusty old general, “it’s completely without precedent to storm such a bridge.”
“That may well be,” nodded Bonaparte. At that very moment Napoleon noticed Georges straining to overbear the conversation. “You there, soldier, come here,” said Bonaparte, motioning to our friend.
“Yes sir,” said Georges, quaking as he saluted.
“What is your name?”
“Georges d’Roux, sir.” Patting him on the back, Bonaparte put his arm around his shoulder. “What do you think we should do?” he asked Georges. “The Austrians are on the other side of the bridge.”
“Attack!” said Georges without thinking.
“So we shall, Georges.” Smiling, Bonaparte summoned his officers. “Dispatch the cavalry at once!” he mounted his horse and turned to the troops assembled behind him. “Follow your general!”he shouted.
Order of the Day
May 10, 1796
Midday the attack began. We drove the enemy out of the town of Lodi. Having crossed the Adda, with twenty guns they fortified their position on the left bank. As a column of our grenadiers formed with intent of storming the bridge, a barrage of artillery fire broke out. The emperor nonetheless ordered the troops to hurl themselves upon the bridge. Accompanied by cries of “Long Live the Republic!” they advanced into enemy fire.
To the Executive Directory
May 10, 1796
I had thought the crossing of the Po by far the boldest operation of this campaign. However, I have now to inform you of the battle of Lodi, which involved my entire artillery for a span of several hours. Flight and death were sown on all sides. Should a list of those who distinguished themselves be needed, I should be compelled to name all the grenadiers of the advance-guard. What is left of the Austrian army now flees. The state of Lombardy may be regarded as part of the Republic.
Bonaparte
May 1804
Eventually, for one reason or another, young men become older men. Fortunes, like love, are won only to be lost again. However, it is not the misfortune of youth to grow old. It is, shall we say, one of the calculated hazards of war. Youthful sentiments are simply replaced by more “mature” feelings, those which duty, for example, or prolonged matrimonial responsibilities, impose. Enough philosophy.
What has happened to our principals? First, they have survived Italy and Egypt. But I’ve made no previous mention of Egypt, have I? Indeed, I have skipped a lot of ground. Shall I backtrack a moment? The Egyptian expedition was undertaken for a number of reasons. Napoleon of course wished to “liberate” Egyptians. There was also the lofty matter of “new knowledge.” (I won’t go into the tactical advantages involving England and India.) At any rate, none of this tells us why Georges, Pierre and Jacques stood face to face with the Pyramids. As for their being in Egypt, yes, France had her reasons; but our friends, you see, had merely their adventures. You consider me mad, do you?
The African expedition was not wholly successful. By the time, however, that Napoleon sailed for France (in August of 1799) he had with him the ultimate fruit of his fourteen-month campaign: the magnificent Description de l’Egypte, in ten sturdy volumes. The general, you see, was a man of words as well as things. Georges left Africa with a handsome promotion. Pierre, on the other hand (or leg), took with him a conspicuous limp, the result of an errant lance. Jacques departed with a distinct impression: that he had fallen into the wrong occupation. There were, in short, lessons to be learned by everyone.
But that was five years ago. Our three friends now reside in Paris, France. No longer the close battlefield companions they once had been, nonetheless they still pay one another visits and share the same social club (convenient for us, what?). Georges is now commanding officer of the 67th. Pierre, discharged from the First Consulate’s army by virtue of his leg, is confined to a desk job. Jacques had taken quarters in the Hôtel Crillon, where he practices and teaches the piano.
“My dear friend, comment Ça va?”said Pierre, lifting himself from the dining table to extend his hand.
“I hope I’m not intruding?”
“Intruding? Of course not, Jacques. Please be seated. And allow me to introduce you to my sister. Marie, this is my good friend, and Paris’s finest pianist, Jacques Varlett.” For a moment Varlett stared speechlessly, his eyes unaccustomed to a woman of such rare elegance. Such a femme had he known only once (and we shan’t go into that). As he seated himself beside her, imagine his astonishment at finding another woman of equal elegance seated across from him! Though his surprise lasted but a second, Varlett felt that within that brief interval he might have improvised an entire cadenza for a Haydn concerto.
“I am pleased to meet you, monsieur,” said Marie, smiling.
“The pleasure, mademoiselle, is mutual,” said Jacques. As he and Marie exchanged pleasantries, Pierre seized the unsuspecting arm of a waiter, informing him that the party was now four. (You will have to excuse me for not introducing the other woman.)
Marie had only a month ago been persuaded by her brother to return to Paris from the country. Her life now, a small but comfortable ménage in her brother’s house (rue Neuve-des-Mathurins), had, despite some misgivings, dispelled her reservations concerning her déménagement. (That is to say, she was both moved and unmoved by the move.) “Everything,” she said to herself by way of justification, “everything is in Paris – its excitement, its beauty, etc.” Her dark eyes glimmered with lights, not unlike those of the City (or the chandelier). At the same time her thick black hair – worn fashionably “up,” exposing the graceful lines of her neck – reminded one of the City’s own sinuousities. In a word, Marie appeared to be a “Paris girl” from the word go, though, as I say, appearances alone are nothing to go on. For, you see, Nature bestows upon certain women sensibilities that surpass the bonds of convenience – what am I saying? The bounds of convention (a question of spelling). Varlett (remember Varlett?) was one of those unconventional individuals, perceptive enough to realize this.
“Well, what have you been doing these days?” said Pierre, folding his hands and placing them on the table. A waiter, crystal glass in his hand, appeared to pour Sauterne for Jacques.
“In two weeks I have a concert. Other than the preparation that entails I can’t say lately I’ve been doing much of anything.”
“Let’s see,” said Pierre, “the last time I saw you was about a month ago. You know, Jacques, you never did explain what it was you were doing standing there in the rain.”
“Why Tousteau, have you forgotten? I said I was getting wet.”
“Marie” – Pierre turned to her with a grin on his face – “I should have warned you about Jacques’ sense of humor.” Marie pressed her napkin to her lips, trying in vain to hold back her laughter.
“Pierre,” said Jacques, changing the name of the game, “I would be honored to have you and your sister as my guests at concert.”
“Why certainly,” said Pierre, turning to Marie. “I don’t see why not.”
‘Yes, that would be fine,” agreed Marie, sipping a little wine.
“Actually,” Pierre added, “Marie plays a bit herself.”
“A little bit,” said Marie, half winking at Varlett.
“Varlett, have you heard anything from Georges recently?” Pierre asked.
“Nothing directly. Though I did hear a rumor that an officer, who bore a remarkable resemblance to Georges, having lectured his troops on neatness, promptly stumbled into a puddle of mud.”
“Is that so,” said Pierre, matter-of-factly.
“Brother,” said Marie, “I believe Monsieur Varlett was making jest.” Sometimes, she thought, Pierre was such a bore.
“Yes,” Pierre returned, “but one should not encourage him, or else we should all be at his mercy the rest of the evening.” He glanced again at the other woman.
“Forgive me, my dear friend, if I seem gay this evening,” Varlett enjoined. “I don’t believe I’ve been so lighthearted in a long while.” Jacques looked at Marie, whose expression excused everything.
After potage, the waiter, who smelled of some unbearable cologne, brought on roast duck. The poor bird appeared to be without wings, not (one might surmise) through any processus of natural selection, but rather on account of the restaurant, or the cook. Which is not to say that Pierre had chosen the worst restaurant in Paris, only the one with the most oddities.
“What’s this?” asked Varlett, abruptly changing the subject again. “What’s this I hear about conferring on the First Consul an hereditary title?” He was examining a piece of duck on the end of his fork, which did not match his knife (his fork, that is, not the piece of duck).
“Surely,” said Tousteau, doing his best to keep up his end of the conversation, “Surely you recognize the necessity of this move.” With a jerk of his hand he slopped gravy down his shirtfront.
“Necessity?”
“Yes,” Pierre insisted. “It is necessary to the stability of our government and to the well-being of the people.”
“Tousteau, you sound like a politician.”
“If that, Pierre, is how I sound, it is because life is political.” Marie sat silently, watching the conversation as though it were a tennis match.
“What title do you suggest Bonaparte be given? King, perhaps?” Jacques waved an empty glass at Pierre.
“You miss my point entirely. France cannot, and will not, be restored to monarchy. We are still a republic. One may be emperor of a republic, never king.”
“It does have a nice ring, doesn’t it? Reminiscent of Rome, perhaps? But Pierre” –Jacques fell somber again – “can’t you see it’s tantamount to the same thing? Emperor, King, what difference?”
“Vive la différence,”said Pierre. “Seriously, Jacques, the First Consul has no desire to regard the people as his subjects.”
“How gracious of him,” scoffed Varlett?
“France was ‘graced’ once – by the Reign of Terror, Jacques.”
“And what is that suppose to mean?”
“I mean” – Pierre paused to clear his mouth of some food he had just stuffed in – “I meant that the government stands on shaky ground, and the distance between us and the past is not as great as one might think.
“And a republican monarchy would secure France’s future?” Jacques asked caustically.
“Varlett, now you’re trifling with words. Besides, it is the people’s will that Bonaparte be Emperor. Do you deny that?”
“I am not the people.”
“Well, the final decision rests with the citizens.” Instead of pursuing the argument, Jacques resigned in exasperation.
Despite their disagreement that evening, Varlett dined with Pierre and his sister three times during the following two weeks, twice at Pierre’s request. It was not, however, for the sake of argument Jacques accepted, but instead for the sake of . . . Marie! When this became clear to Pierre, he fancied himself a matchmaker, keeping a cautious eye out for reciprocal feelings on the part of his sister.
Finally, the day of the concert arrive. Though the hall was less than half full, Varlett was enthusiastically received, and the size of the audience was by no means proportionate to its appreciation. Jacques opened the program with the brooding bars of Mozart’s D minor concerto, which some of the auditors confused with a low roll of thunder outside. The somber movement caused Pierre’s thoughts to turn toward the matter of fiscal responsibility. The second movement, with its shift in dynamics, found Marie preoccupied with thoughts of childhood. At the start of the third, Georges, in a surprise appearance, took a seat at the back of the hall.
In the months that followed the concert, Jacques and Marie grew to love one another, though they were never to marry. Pierre went on living comfortably, Marie never far from his side, serving whatever government happened to be in power. Georges – and here I will be especially brief – unaccountably left the army to wander all over Europe.
The vote of the Council of State, in accord with the public mandate, confirmed the First Consul in his highest ambitions. Thus, on the eighteenth of May, he addressed the Senate:
“All that can contribute to the welfare of the country is essentially connected with my happiness. I accept the title which you believe to be conducive to the glory of the Nation. I submit to the sanction of the people the law of hereditary succession. I hope that France will never repent the honors which she may confer on my family. In all events, my spirits will not be with my posterity, when they cease to merit the confidence and love of this great nation.”
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“All is alteration,” said the sage, hitching up his pants. “Could there be spring without winter?”
“No, father. But have not the holy men told us as much? Have they not revealed this in their writings?”
“Does not winter follow fall and fall summer?” the father continued. “And does not winter return to spring?”
“Yes,” the son replied, not quite understanding the purpose of these questions. Was the father, with such obvious thoughts, baiting a trap in which to catch error?
“Heaven is above,” the father went on. “The world is below. Above the earth phenomena take form. The bud of the plant disappears when it blossoms. And so the fruit of the plant replaces the blossom.”
“What is this section doing in here anyway,” said Linda, munching on an apple as she flipped the pages of a new periodical.
“The movements’” – she read a little further – “‘are orderly. Each stage supplements the other. And each occurs at a certain moment of the year. In the heavens, things change according to fixed laws!” Linda riffled the pages, hoping to get to the illustrations. The voice droned on: “‘The men have reflected upon these matters, my son. Looking at the stars they observed the regularities of heaven. Examining the world they found events at odds with the phenomena of heaven.’” Linda, who had stopped reading, was fixing herself an omelet.
“‘The holy ones instituted the hexagrams so that phenomena might be observed. As we know, movement and rest have their laws. The hexagrams reflect this fact.’” How do you cut this thing off? Linda wondered. She wasn’t feeling like Ancient China. She was feeling more like Spokane, Washington.
“‘The holy sages,’ continued the father, ‘were able to look upon all the diversities under heaven. They saw forms and phenomena, and made likenesses of things and their properties. These are called the Images.’” Linda scraped the egg from the pan and sat down to eat. “‘The holy sages surveyed all the movements under heaven.’” Someone had opened the front door. Whew! It was only Donald, back from teaching a class on Yeats. “‘The contemplation of the meeting and interrelating of these alterations led them to the perception of external laws.’” Still, Linda sensed trouble. “The Images express the thoughts of holy men.’” “Maybe I’m starting to crack up under the pressure,” she said. “‘The hexagrams were devised to express truths, not falsehoods.’” Luckily, Donald had found the new issue of Sewanee Review and had settled into his chair to read an article. Apparently he wasn’t hungry, yet. “‘This vision, however, is not complete. We have been uplifted by the thoughts of the holy men only so that we see beyond them.’
“The son, who had been impatient until now, was suddenly astonished by the father’s wisdom. Quietly they sat, the father and son, considering their conversation.” Linda greedily licked her plate, getting at the last of the salt and butter. “A summer storm approached. Rain refreshed the earth. Great thunder and lightning broke over the mountains. Yet, before long, quiet again prevailed.” Putting the last of the dishes on the draining board, she scoured the sink with Bon Ami. “After the storm, the father spoke again: ‘The hexagrams are more than our fate. They offer us a choice. Next year it will be spring once more.’” Carefully, she placed the new manual beneath the newspapers under the sink. Still the voice of the father continued: “‘Ah, but the farmer knows what to do . . . And that is the question we must answer.’” Linda locked the bathroom door behind her. “‘Our task is to know which actions are prosperous, which are not.’”
“With their ideas still fresh, father and son went about the task they had set themselves.” Turning the light on, Linda sat down. She had picked up a copy of Mademoiselle off the floor, and she began reading. “This was during the reign of the evil Chou,” the words continued. She turned on the water in the bathtub, hoping to cover the sound, but it was still faintly audible. “This was the person, if one so chooses to call him, responsible for his own father’s imprisonment.” Through the bathroom door Linda could hear a person tossing a journal on the coffee table. Someone had entered the kitchen. I suppose he’s looking for something to eat, thought Linda. “The son, with a pointed stick, drew the first hexagram. Henceforward, to this very day, it is known as Ch’ien (the Creative).”
. . . . .
Sometime after the 20th of May 1804
“Bonaparte is no more than an ordinary human! Now he too will trample the rights of man to indulge his ambition. He too will become a tyrant, and his tyranny will encircle the globe. God damn him!” Ludwig flew into a rage, knocking over a small table and sending a blue porcelain vase crashing to the floor. Seizing the manuscript of his “Sinfonia eroica,” the ink scarcely dry, he ripped the title page to shreds, cursing as he did so and shaking his fists.
. . . . .
May 1821
St. Helena, six thousand miles from Europe, sits in the midst of the Atlantic Ocean, twelve hundred miles from the coast of Africa. The island is ten miles long and five miles wide. Its inhabitants include 500 whites, 300 slaves, and the Emperor of France.
It is the first day of May. The climate is oppressive. In his household there is much concern for the emperor’s health. His suffering is great, but it shall not endure more than five days. The emperor will never recover from his illness. We take our description of the room in which he is held captive from his personal physician:
“At one end stood a camp bed of iron, with four silver angels and a curtain of silk. The room was lit by two small windows, both without ornament. Between the windows stood a writing desk, upon which was a large dressing case. Before the desk sat an armchair, which the emperor used for study. Another chair had been placed to the left of the armchair. To the right of it hung a sword which the emperor had worn at Austerlitz. The door leading to the bathroom was concealed by an old screen, next to which, covered with calico, stood an equally old sofa. The emperor on occasion would recline upon this sofa, seeking shelter from the dampness and the gnats, his legs wrapped in a flannel sack. At such times he kept a shabby table by his side, for his books, or his breakfast. The other furnishings in the room consisted of several guns, two Chinese screens, a chest of drawers (on which empty bottles of medicine were placed), and a magnificent washstand, brought here from the Élysées Palace.”
The emperor had not slept well the night before, if he had slept at all. His feverish condition had caused him to drink much water.
“Tell me, good doctor, have you in all your dealings with the human body ever met with the soul under your scalpel? In what part of the body does it reside? In what organ? Why is it that you doctors do not believe in God? Even mathematicians are religious!” The physician offered no answers, instead continuing his examination, as the emperor spoke:
“After my death I desire that you open my body and have another look. But that time you shall be looking at the inside. This should give you another chance to find out what’s wrong. Hindsight is often valuable. I further insist that no English physician touch me. I desire that you take my heart, put it in spirits, and take it to my dear Maria Lousia. You will tell her that I love her and that I shall always love her. I strongly recommend that you examine my stomach carefully and make a detailed report concerning the state in which you find it. The vomitings, which succeed each other without interruption, lead me to think my stomach the most diseased of all the organs. I am inclined to believe that I suffer from the very disorder that took my father’s life. The frequency of the vomitings makes me suspect this. Please communicate the results of your examination to my son, so that he may have the benefit of appropriate medication. Never, since I have lived upon this horrible piece of rock, have I been permitted to correspond with my family. No longer do my wife or son exist for me. My son should be a man with new ideas, bred of the cause which I have made triumphant. He should establish institutions which obliterate feudal law, secure the dignity of man, and develop a lasting prosperity. He should spread the benefits of Christianity and civilization to the uncivilized and barbarous countries. Such should be the aim of all my son’s thought. Such is the cause for which I die, a martyr, at the hands of the enemies of humanity, as they endeavor to oppress the people of France, whom they regard as a flock of sheep. Let them dwell upon the righteousness of my cause. My son will see that opposing interests live together peacefully. Ideas shall be diffused without the spilling of blood. But should the blind hatred of kings still pursue humanity, I will be avenged. Civilization will suffer, rivers of death will flow throughout the whole of Europe: the lights of science and knowledge will be extinguished by civil and foreign wars. The well-being of nations, which has taken so many years to obtain, will be destroyed. These consequences no one can foresee. You shall publish all that I have written, or said, so that my son may read it and reflect upon it. You will tell my son to protect those who have been in service to me. My poor devoted soldiers are at the moment in need of bread. I was compelled to effect change by force of arms. My son will accomplish his purpose through the consent of the people, not of generals.” At the completion of the physician’s examination the emperor ceased to converse coherently.
It is the second day of May. The emperor is delirious with fever. An observer records that in his irrational state he shouted out.
“Victory is declaring! Run! Hasten! Press the charge! They are ours!”
He has begun to act out past glories and talk to former companions. Images, emotions, thoughts charge his brain with incessant brutality:
“It has been argued that divorce for the reason of incompatibility is not the interests of wives and children, children, children. A child, my son. My son is plump and in good health. He has my mouth and my eyes. I hope that he shall fulfill his destiny. What is the future? What the past? What is the magic fluid that envelops us and hides from us, from us? What time is it to enter Notre Dame? What time is it? Time of the coronation! Ten o’clock. No, I’m dying, on some godddam desolate island. Josephine’s thighs! A few years ago I thought I loved you, but now my love for you is a thousandfold. This proves false the maxim ‘Love comes suddenly,’ love comes suddenly, suddenly. Everything in nature develops. Oh my god, Josephine, how beautiful you are! Why don’t you want to kiss me? Now look here, Bourrienne, you must promise to do me a favor before I leave Italy. You see my wife once in awhile; that’s all right, and as it should be. You have long been a member of my household. But now go and see her; try once more to reason with her concerning these mad expenditures. I discover each day she spends more than the day before. When I talk with her I become angry, I make a scene. She cries, I forgive her. I pay, she makes promises. And the next day I discover she has spent more money. It all starts again. Josephine, I have received your letter in which you seem angry because I spoke ill of women. The truth is that I have been spoiled by your gentle and good nature. Women should be regarded as machines for the making of children, children, my son. Merciful God, I shall never leave this forsaken island. Having just left the Théâtre des Italiens, with long strides I paced up and down the paths of the Palais-Royal, my soul stirred by the vigorous emotions which characterize it. But my imagination had cooled somewhat. Directly by the threshold of the iron gates, my eyes fell upon a female. The hour of the evening, her style of dress left me with no doubt of her occupation. I watched her. She stopped. I spoke: “You must be cold.” “It is hope,” she replied, “that keeps me going.” Egypt, the moon, the sands of Egypt, the fluid, the fluid that hides from us that which we most need to know. I am in Paris, about to enter the Opéra. I greet the audience; I hear their acclaim; I see the actors, hear the music. I leap across St. Helena and the distance of centuries. Pain! My stomach! God! These are feelings I alone can prove. Plato, du Contrat social, Human Understanding. Show a watch to a savage and he thinks it has a soul. I am the watch that is and does not know itself. I have never doubted God. If my reason fails me, I shall have my feelings. Bossuet, Leibnitz, Newton, my old friend Murat.”
By 9:00 o’clock in the morning the fever has been brought under control. The emperor, choking on bile, beckons his physician to his side. By noon the ravages of the fatal disease return. Sinking into a comatose state, the emperor, in a strained voice, once more addresses the physician: “Doctor, I am going to die. Please remember what I have instructed you. Make a careful examination of my stomach. I wish to save my son from this disease. You shall see him. Advise him best you can. Spare him this suffering.”
It is the third day of May. The emperors’ executors have assembled about his bed. He speaks to them carefully, quietly:
“You will all soon leave for Europe. Each of you has been faithful to me and will, I am sure, remain faithful to my memory. The arduous conditions in which I find myself have obliged me to act with severity. This has postponed the execution of my plans. The bow remains bent. France has been deprived of those very institutions I intended for her. By la Patrie I am judged with indulgence. She is grateful. My victories and fame she cherishes. I only ask now that which I know you will do. Be faithful to those ideals which we have defended. There is no alternative. To do otherwise would spell shame and confusion.”
The Abbé Vignali has been sent for. An altar is placed beside the bed. All have left the room except for the Abbé. It is evening. At 5:00 o’clock the emperor receives the last rites. A friend has entered the room. Before he falls asleep, Napoleon speaks with his friend. The voice has a peaceful air:
“I am one of those who believe there exist many paths to Paradise. The atheist, my faithful friend, needs more than the will not to believe.”
It is the fourth day of May. Upon awakening, Napoleon orders his Chinese servant:
“Open the window. Open it wide, that I may breathe the air, the good air that God hath made.”
By nightfall a tropical storm has begun. The wind and sea are full of violence. Feverish, the emperor tosses unconsciously in his bed:
“That which I foresaw has happened. Half the regiments deserted! Please, I would like something cool to drink. Lemonade. Is there a drink made of cherries? Of apples? Pears? Almonds: Ah, cherries! The Battle of Austerlitz is merely the natural outcome of our plan for Moravia. Be sure to reconnoiter all these heights thoroughly; you will be fighting here. God damn it, it’s dark. How am I supposed to see these maps in the dark, with the Austrians immobilized, your white plumes? No, no, the Russians! And the Prussians will force the Austrians to resume the offensive. The Alps . . . the art of war is like everything . . . like everything beautiful and simple, sometimes a single battle decides everything. The slightest circumstance decides the issue of a battle, a thousand circumstances, which are never the same. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Fight, fight, you bleeding cunts! Men are nothing. One man is everything. Everything. Alexander, Hannibal. War feeds war. Victory marches at a quick step. Soldiers, you are ill fed and half naked! Goddam it, how am I supposed to conduct a war in this cold, dark room? The French soldiers possess bravery. Bravery of an impatient sort. Julius Caesar, Wellington, should not have won. My designs will be accomplished. I possess the will and the strength. Nothing hinders me. I do not need anyone, not even my family. At Boulogne I cast Lucien from me. He dared to speak to me like a man, like a man who was not French. If need be I shall adopt a general and send him to Spain. I’ll adopt Bernadotte, as I adopted Murat. Your grandfather Necker was an ideologue. At the age of sixty he desired to see my constitution overthrown. Fight, you fuckers, fight, you are nothing, God damn it, six hours’ rest is enough. I have won at Nangis with a handful of dragoons. I command you to leave within twelve hours, the motherland is in danger. When a French soldier sees your white plumes. Battles ordinarily last six hours. Soldiers! Come come and take your places under the flags of your leader. What a strange thing is this! How mysterious! I have commanded in battles that decided the fate of a whole army, and felt no emotion. I watched the execution of maneuvers which cost the lives of many, and my eyes remained dry, dry, my throat is dry, please, I would like something refreshing to drink, Moscow, burning, please, my stomach is in pain. Achilles was the son of a goddess and a mortal, a battle, which battle? Soldiers!! Russia is the most to be feared, God knows what may happen.”
It is the morning of the fifth day. By 5:00 am the skies have cleared. All have survived the storm except for one. A friend reports the last words of the emperor:
“France, the Army, the Head of the Army, Josephine.”