Love

Prologue

LIKE the chorus employed by Mr. Shakespeare to explain his play, maybe it would further our story to return to the back number? Number one — the first volume of these Napoleonic romances — deals with the Revolution. There's Robespierre and Tallien in it; Mme. Tallien as a young girl; also as a girl bride — she was barely sixteen when her first child was born, the son of her first husband the Marquis Devin de Fontenay, whom she divorced during the Terror, partly because she was tired of him, partly to shine the lovelier in the eyes of M. Tallien, the zealous patriot of '93, and Governor of Bordeaux. He set up a guillotine in that city and worked it for all he was worth. The divorced wife of red-headed, uninteresting Marquis de Fontenay was his mistress during that bloody reign, and they say she deserved her title of "Our Lady of Mercy" — saving a good many aristocrats from death by forging passports and getting them passages on outward-bound vessels. It is satisfactory to chalk up any good thing about the lady, as, truth to tell, her sins very much outweighed her virtues. In this present volume married to Tallien, she is the moving spirit of the Directory, the government which immediately followed the Revolution, in its turn overthrown, 1799, by Napoleon Bonaparte, who, as you know, assumed office (and practically all the power) as First Consul "for life." Josephine, when informed of this new proof of the nation's trust in her general — whom she'd married to do her children a good turn — did not appreciate it at all. "Oh," she said, "it sounds very dull. I love change." As it happened she had quite sufficient.

History is often stranger than fiction. In this first volume of ours — which I advise you to read — far better

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than little tit-bits of information, which can't be either instructive or entertaining — we have actually Tallien's mistress, a duchess who slips off into private life, and Bonaparte's future empress all boxed up in the same cell at Les Carmes, waiting every evening to hear their names read on the list of the condemned. We like that piece, though we have written it, we say it is true to life, with just the necessary touch of romance to make it thrilling. Fancy now, Josephine, Terezia and that dear little Ninon — who vanishes out of the story like a pretty little sentiment— were actually living, breathing historical women at the time when Robespierre went about in sky-blue clothes, and Napoleon in disgrace, sucking an orange, in the narrow undrained streets of old Paris. ... It is the human touch, after all, which makes us all akin. The book as far as it is written has that merit. Not a word in it introduced for the sake of padding — each line is a link in the chain of one man's life. Through the Revolution and the Terror he necessarily played a poor, humble part. To be unknown is a severe penalty on ambition. No doubt Napoleon, having finished his orange, and finding it did not satisfy his appetite, thought very badly of the situation and turned his brain inside out to find a possible loophole of escape. Odd enough to say, Toulon had come out flat. He'd swept the English out to sea, but the Revolutionists, after paying him the flimsiest compliment for his military services, not only left him in a corner, but at the first opportunity deprived him of his commission.

In this present volume our hero emerges from his obscurity, succeeds even in getting married and learning the foxtrot of the day. We see him at M. Barras' famous parties, where Mme. Tallien launched the new fashions and behaved disgracefully. For one thing she very soon ousted "darling Josephine," as she called the widow Beauharnais, from the vacillating affections of Barras, who, as the head of the Directory, was the most important man in Paris, when sugar cost eight hundred francs a pound. Mme. Tallien always looked to the main chance. As

PROLOGUE vii

mistress of Paul Barras and the Luxembourg she reigned for more than a year and a day.

On coming out of prison everyone was more or less poor. No doubt it was wise of Josephine to let M. Barras help her in her difficulties. That she did so — and paid the price — is a fact we have no particular reason to hide. No doubt Napoleon was aware of her "kindness" in that quarter, though of course he did not mention it. Besides, any little scandal between them was so very soon squashed by Terezia's sandalled feet. She introduced sandals, bare feet, even great-toe rings/ in ballrooms, and the very scantiest frocks imaginable. A detestable young woman. If you are not up in history we are glad to tell you her vogue vanished with the Directory. In other words, after the third volume of this work you'll hardly meet her. Napoleon could not stand her at any price, though on one occasion he made love to her. His word is law. Naturally Mme. Tallien goes. And not a living soul need regret her. That precious Tallien of hers — whom, of course, she divorced — also retires into the background. New lamps for old lamps? That's the idea. Once married, Bonaparte buckles on his sword and goes to the wars and has no end of a proud time. He was never happy ; but domineering and wise. He creates his own atmosphere. He brings his relations to Paris, and an entirely new set of people. In the interests of the story let us say the principals remain, including the doctor, the landlord, the pawnbroker, the musician and the poet at The Cow. Poor ojd blistered cow. You remember the signpost? — centuries old — of a creature painted blue — washed pale by many a dew — with gold spots on her body, poached-egg eyes and a tail literally made of wrought iron twisting cunningly out of the picture, a fair way down, tipped conveniently to support mine host's foggy street lantern. We'll tell you a secret to start off with. Souci is our favorite. Second to him comes Joseph, the disguised turnkey of Les Carmes, a brave gentleman if ever there was one, and the greatest optimist of his day.

Chapter I

MADAME JOSEPHINE DE BEAUHABNAIS took her widowhood, as M. Joseph had foreseen, quite angelically. For the first two or three months after her release from prison, she wore becoming mourning for the late vicomte — one of that splendid band of martyrs — and whenever she spoke of him — which was far more frequently than when he had been alive — she invariably referred to him as "poor dear Alexandre." How true it is that death — particularly under tragic circumstances — improves our worldly position. Her husband's memory was full of tender light to Josephine. Aunt Fanny, the kindest of ladies, understood her niece's attitude and sympathized fully with her regenerated feelings towards the defunct soldier and gentleman, her nephew by marriage.

When Josephine came out of prison, Madame Fanny de Beauharnais received her as a mother, in poor circumstances. Everyone was poor at that time. Everyone had to pinch and screw and hope for better times, with the exception of a few lucky individuals, including M. Paul Barras and mealy-mouthed, triumphant M. Tallien. As we have said, Man-Tallien emerged from the Terror as a frightened duckling from a slimy pond on to a patch of golden sunlit earth, where — like a duckling — he very quickly recovered, shook the slime off his body and grew, as it were, a complete new set of feathers (principles).

One of Josephine's first pious acts was to buy her bereaved children suitable mementoes of their father, at the

LOVE expense of M. B arras. Both Eugene and Hortense had been genuinely attached to their gay, good-looking parent. However, as Josephine said, time would heal the cruel wound inflicted on their young hearts. Hortense got a dignified mourning-brooch, inset with a miniature portrait of the vicomte. Eugene was presented with a new scarfpin and his father's old sword, which last treasure he valued extremely. "Poor dear children!" their mother would exclaim, "how uncertain is their future. What can I give them?"

Madame Josephine, after accepting Aunt Fanny's hospitality for a little while — on the recommendation of M. Barras — removed into a modest apartment, not far off from the Luxembourg. With her small means the widow furnished it delightfully. At the end of the Terror furniture was to be had quite cheaply in Paris. All the big houses were empty, a great many demolished, others again robbed of all their contents, from garret to cellar. The streets were full of new people. If you went to the play, probably you would not know a single person in the theatre. There were few carriages in the streets. For obvious reasons all the aristocrats in town lived very quietly. Their reticence quite pained M. Tallien. His heart yearned over the "unfortunates," or rather over a class he — and he alone — had been able to snatch from perdition.

The last year of Terror was going out meekly as a lamb. True — spiritual regeneration aside — there was much to be done from a practical point of view. The granaries were empty. The exchequers full of worthless paper money. Prices were ruinous. The dirt and confusion in France, thanks to Robespierre's horrid excesses, were truly awful. Each member of the new government was given any amount of new brooms. "Sweep away," said Tallien, enthusiastically. "Sweep away!" gesticulating as a windmill — all eagerness to set everyone a good example. To tell you the truth, it required a stronger brain than M. Paul Barras possessed to know if he was standing on his head or his

LOVE 5

heels at this ticklish transition period of French history. He had accepted office as the head of the Convention. Tallien was his right-hand man. Talleyrand was in America, or rather, on his way back to France. If his head was safe Talleyrand could always be relied upon to look after his own interests and (if they coincided) the interests of other people. Barras was looking forward to the ex-Bishop's assistance in the delicate task of pleasing all parties, or, if that was impossible, to satisfy the majority. Fouche was another public man to the fore. All moderates. All innocent of any participation in Robespierre's devilish schemes. That was to be understood.

The lovely Terezia was disappointed at the turn of events. She had expected more of the Dagger Trick. Tallien — growing his new feathers — struck her as a lamentable object. He was greedy, untruthful, unpleasant— not a man a woman would go out of her way to marry. The months slipped by and the lovely Terezia gave her lover every cause for impatience — we might even say for jealousy. Freedom found her ready for any extravagance. Her admirers were legion. Kisses always agreed with her. She only laughed when Josephine advised moderation. Prudence was totally out of fashion. Solomon's teeth ! weren't they all entitled to the best of everything, considering what they had gone through?

"I'll stop at nothing," said Terezia. "Do you remember Wednesday's soup at Les Cannes?"

Josephine made a face. "Please let me forget it," she said. "All the same, I do consider mourning crepe and red tulle incongruous."

"It is a symbol."

"What's that?"

The ladies were having tea at Bonfreres, the celebrated pastrycook in the rue St. Honore. Josephine was hostess.

"Take another cream bun," she said. "I've had three; they are delicious."

"Thanks, darling. I must think of my figure."

"When are you going to marry Tallien?"

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"If only Tallien was a man and not a vile worm, I'd marry him to-morrow. As it is, I can't bring myself to the point."

"He'll get on, darling. A clever woman can always shape a husband. A pat here and a pat there, and there you are."

The pretty widow sat back in her chair, looking the picture of all the virtues.

Terezia reflected.

"Dear, dear," she said, "I wish people weren't such beasts. If they hadn't made such a wicked fuss, and murdered the poor dear King and Queen, we would have been much better off. Do you know jam has gone up to three hundred francs a pound?"

Josephine smiled. "Paul is a darling," she said, somewhat irrelevantly.

"Anyhow, madam," said Terezia, "he is useful."

"Invaluable," said Josephine.

"Marriage is all the fashion," said Terezia, pettishly. "You have got to follow my example."

Josephine sighed. "That's what all my friends tell me. Find me the man, Terezia. He's got to be young and handsome, ambitious and certain to get on."

"There's General Augereau "

"Not my sort at all. He's a block of wood."

"General Hoche "

"How can you contemplate marrying a man who proposes by letter?"

"You are a horrid little wretch."

"I am satisfied with my children."

"They don't bother you. True."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing. Has Barras got the ballroom in order?"

They both laughed.

"He is only a dear friend."

Terezia rose. "I've five visits to pay, and it is three o'clock. I dine at five."

"It was charming of you coming."

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"A treat, Josephine. How do you like my new hat?"

"It is lovely. A little bit too big, perhaps."

"Not an inch. Come along, darling. Don't forget your bag."

The ladies rustled out of the shop, leaving a trail of scent behind them. The little tea cost Josephine five hundred francs. As we have said, prices were ruinous. Where do people get their money from? We know Josephine's source. Also Terezia's. But those people who weren't in their fortunate circumstances. Or did everyone have a friend with a private account on the public exchequer?

Josephine parted with Terezia outside. She got into a cab — private carriages were still looked upon as savoring of class and the devil. Madame de Beauharnais preferred to walk. It was only a step to her apartment, she said.

On her way she looked in at Henri's celebrated flower-shop, and selected a big bunch of violets and lilies. She took them with her. The order was entered in M. Henri's big ledger. He was particularly polite to his customer.

"It is pleasure, citoyewie, to serve you," he said. "You have such perfect taste."

He bowed.

"Thank you," said Josephine sweetly.

From his little diamond-paned window the proprietor of the best flower-shop in Paris in 1794 watched the lady disappear down the crowded thoroughfare. She was a very graceful woman.

It was the last week in November, and everything pointed to a brisk winter season.

"A nice change," said Henri to himself. "I am sure I wish them the best of good luck."

We expect he meant the aristocrats, who last season had been very much out of favor.

Chapter II

A WEEK later, M. Paul Barras paid Josephine de *"*- Beauharnais a visit. He was very kind in coming to see her.

She had dressed herself in her prettiest clothes. After five months' widowhood she permitted herse1^ shades of lilac, grey and white. Black was too sad. 'And black and red — as she had said to Terezia — was vulgar.

This afternoon she was looking her very best and was charmingly gay and confident of the future.

They were seated in front of the fire — Josephine curled up on the hearth-rug, with an elbow on M. Barras' knee. He in the pink velvet chair. The hearth-rug was of white fur. The little drawing-room, scented by lilies and violets, was not over-lighted. In fact, the fire, which burned very clearly, made all the effect it wanted. The shaded lamp on the satin-wood round table in front of the big giltframed sofa didn't interfere with it at all.

"You are so good to me," she said.

"Haven't I assured you a thousand times I'm your debtor?"

"Si — si," said Josephine. "How nice it is to be warm ! How I have suffered from the cold."

"Poor darling!"

"We never complained. We made a point of never complaining. Even when the rats ran away with our precious soap we made a joke of it."

"The past is over."

"Is it? Really, really over? Sometimes I wake up in the night and think I am dreaming. I touch my silk counterpane. 'That's not a real bed,' I say- He stopped her by a kiss.

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"Josephine, I adore you."

"It would not have been real except for your generosity. It was lucky meeting a fairy prince as you stepped out of prison. I wrote to you at once "

"And I came round without the loss of a moment."

"So you did. And Aunt Fanny gave you tea and told you about my children."

"I was not listening."

"For shame, sir!"

"I was thinking of you, and how sweet you looked "

"Thin as a post !"

"ana that you had the most wonderful eyes in the

world."

"To think," she said softly, "if it had not been for you I would have starved. Aunt Fanny's reticule wouldn't have gone round."

He laughed. "Of course you would. Those little hands weren't made for work."

Josephine jumped up and fetched a bag of colored silks and shook it at him. "Look, sir," she said; "my knitting." She pulled out the heel of a stocking. "I must not tell a story. Clementine helped me with the heel. But I've done nearly all the rest."

He caught her hand and kissed it.

"You are a wonderful little woman. Don't cry; life is too short for tears."

"We are going to live for ever. Oh, poor dear Alexandre! It does seem hard on him. We did not get on exactly. But I've quite forgotten it."

He was silent.

She sat down on the rug again. She held her slender hands to the blaze, looking into the fire.

"On the whole he was a good husband."

M. Barras cleared his throat. To tell you the truth, the charming widow's reminiscences bored him stiff. The late vicomte had never appealed to him.

"Crown him, by all means, madam. A dead man is often a hero to his friends."

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"Now you are cross. I don't like you when you arc horrid."

"I was furiously jealous of your late husband."

Josephine turned round and gave him a look, quite a tender one. She smiled with her mouth closed, or nearly so. A trick ladies learn who have no teeth to disclose. Her teeth were, as you know, her little purgatory. Most of them had by this time fallen out. Dentistry a hundred years ago was in its infancy. Ladies who lost their teeth went without. . . . Napoleon did not mind.

"I have not known you for all these months without finding out when you are angry," she said, nodding her head. "I am really rather clever. I'll forgive you this time."

"Amiable gentleman, I regret I did not know him better."

"You would have been great friends."

"Under the circumstances I doubt it."

"If he had lived they would not have existed. Alexandre would have provided for his wife and children."

"God rest his soul !"

"Are you staying to dinner?" said Josephine, wisely changing the subject.

"I'd love to. But I am up to my ears in work."

"Poor darling. That is why you are looking worried. Pass it over to Tallien."

"He is the man who causes the work."

"I have to tone down his policy. He'll rant about everything, knowing nothing of the situation."

B arras slapped his gloves against his knees. "I'd like to murder him."

"The savior of France! Never forget he saved my life."

"No, he didn't. Pure chance."

"Nothing pure about it! Another day and we would have died, or gone mad."

"Don't think about it, my little one. You are safe."

She put her hand in his. "It is like a dream," she

LOVE 11

whispered. "Just you and I, and the wicked world outside."

"I never want to leave you," he said.

Her soft dress was of dove-grey silk. An amber comb shone in her auburn hair, and round her slender neck she wore a curious filigree necklace of gold and hammered silver, which seemed to emphasize her thinness. Her delicate bust was ungirdled, and fell and rose with each breath. At the foot of her petticoat dangled a little sachet filled with her favorite violet perfume. Her shoes were of grey satin, with silk stockings to match.

"You always have a moment to spare for little Josephine."

"Even when she is naughty and extravagant."

"Sir, I'm not extravagant! Everything is so frightfully dear, except furniture."

She pointed to a magnificent Louis XIV bureau standing in one corner of her pretty, though rather overcrowded sitting-room.

"Fancy, I got it for a franc."

"A silver franc is a good deal of money in these times."

"As to your assignats — I hate them."

She leaned forward and drew a bundle of notes from her silk bag and flung them into the fire.

"They are absolutely worthless," she exclaimed. "Yesterday a cabman charged me for an hour's drive a thousand francs. I've got to pay a hundred francs for a pound of candles, and eighty francs for a pound of starch. And gloves — what do gloves cost?"

"You threw at least six pairs into the fire just now."

"How stupid of me !" she cried. "I am so sorry. Forgive me."

He rose to his feet, a fine, imposing gentleman — with a twinkle in his deep-set eyes — dressed in the height of the ornate fashion of the day. He might have been forty or less. His thick dark hair was touched with grey at the temples. He was clean-shaven except for a small moustache which barely hid his sensuous mouth — the

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mouth of a man who does not stand on ceremony and who is fond of life. His skin was sallow, save for a red flush on his forehead. He had strong, white teeth. As the nominal head of the Convention, M. Barras had at this time every need of his well-known courage and tact.

In the intimacy of his private life M. Barras cheerfully forgot the dismal profession of politics. He acknowledged to himself that he was master of as ugly a crew as ever sailed on unknown seas. He couldn't see a handsbreadth in front of him. So he conveniently shut his eyes, made love to the charming widow Beauharnais, and let his easily — if somewhat dubiously — amassed wealth flow through his fingers.

Even at the worst stage of the Revolution he had kept open house. After the fall of Robespierre he immediately set the social wheel revolving. At the Luxembourg palace he entertained on a princely scale when bread was thirty francs a loaf — which speaks volumes for his financial genius if not for his statesmanship. His only rival in the art of entertainment was apparently ce Tallien. Tallien's was not a generous nature. The two men were utterly and radically different. Barras was a gentleman by birth and education. To be exact, a vain and pompous gentleman. In his younger days he had had many adventures. He had sailed the high seas, some say on a pirate ship. He had ventured his life — no, with his no doubt highly-colored past we have nothing to do.

Josephine — still kneeling on the hearthrug — looked up at her tall friend with a sweetly contrite expression.

"What am I to do?" she asked.

"Accept your punishment."

He bent down and kissed her soundly.

As in duty bound she defended herself (weakly), played a good deal with her fascinating eyes, and at length turned round and buried her face in a convenient fenderstool (covered with vieux-bleu velvet).

"You are such a blessing," she murmured.

"Pshaw I" he said. "Gratitude is the last thing I want."

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She thought a moment and looked up at him critically.

"I wonder they didn't guillotine you."

"I was born under a lucky star, madam."

Again she shook her head. "I suppose I am stupid. I don't believe in that kind of thing. Terezia tells me General Bonaparte accepts his present poverty because he believes in his own fortunate destiny. Are you all mad?"

"More or less," he smiled. "A man in love is never sane."

"Is the little general in love?"

"I believe he has proposed to his grandmother "

"Grandmother?"

"In years, you know. However, the worthy Madame Permon has refused him."

"The idea! He must be a droll person."

"A good marriage would help him on in the world. He is rather in difficulties just at present."

"Why don't you assist him?"

"I do all I can. He is an exceptionally clever man."

"I don't like exceptionally clever people."

Barras laughed loudly. "That is one for me," he said. "Have you ever met him?"

"Who? This terrifying Corsican? Never."

"You will see him at my house next Tuesday."

"He does not interest me in the least. Darling — I only love one man in the whole wide world."

For the next half-hour or so they were happily engaged by strictly personal matters.

There was scarcely room for two in the pink velvet armchair, snugly drawn up to the fireside, so presently Josephine accepted a seat on M. Barras' knee. She declared she felt so safe in his arms. She laid her head on his shoulder and shut her eyes.

"You will always love me?"

"Always."

"Until Never— for ever?"

She played with his hair and patted his face. "You have great responsibilities, sir," she said.

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"I have you," he admitted. "Yes. Times are uncertain."

"I don't mind as long as we have nice parties."

"My modest little Tuesdays "

"Your balls will be heavenly, of course. But there is only one Tuesday in every week," she sighed.

"We are just starting. By-and-by you'll be longing for the country."

"Never! I have had enough of dullness to last my life."

"I thought you were fond of the country."

"So I am. I was only joking. I intend, sir, to have a beautiful estate with the best gardens in France, somewhere in the neighborhood of Paris. You'll see, it will be a lovely house. I arranged it all in prison. One room will be all in yellow; another in green. And there'll be a long south terrace prettily set out with garden furniture, and bordered with fabulous roses. I was born in the south. Flowers and dreams belong to each other. They are inseparable."

"Am I in the picture, Josephine?"

"But of course," she said sedately; "you have got to give me the house. Or if you won't, someone else must."

They talked of the Talliens. Josephine said she considered it very indiscreet of her friend to postpone her marriage, allowing at the same time that she understood her hesitation.

"In her place I'd do the same. He may be a hero," she said. "But he has got awful hands. Objectionable hands. And there is too much of his smile."

"A fox."

"Is he? But she must marry him. She said so herself. Society demands certain regulations."

M. Barras laughed. "Don't trouble your dear little head about her," he said. "She doesn't interest me in the least."

Josephine hid her face on his breast. "Oh, dearest," *aid, "I pity you."

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He stroked her shining hair. "What is the secret?" he asked.

"Terezia had the enormous impertinence to tell me that she admired you immensely, and that she intended, tout simplement, taking you up. 'It will be perfectly easy,' she said. 'He is the kind of man who loses his head at once/ " Barras laughed constrainedly, meeting Josephine's merry glance rather awkwardly.

"The good-for-nothing baggage! Madame, take my advice and leave the future Madame Tallien ^severely alone."

Josephine wriggled. "I can't afford it. I have so few friends in Paris. Terezia can be very nice."

He wrapped her passionately in his strong arms. "What odd creatures you women are," he said. "You never keep to the same thing for one moment. Yet you are adorable."

"Yes, of course," returned Josephine, simply. (She was entirely convinced of her rightful position in this world.)

She sighed contentedly; they were both silent, until an involuntary shiver on her side made Barras exclaim anxiously, "You are not ill?"

"Oh, no," said Josephine placidly, "I have never felt better in all my life. Feel my hands — aren't they nice and warm?"

"You are not accustomed to our climate."

"It is atrocious. Was there ever such a winter? It is not yet Christmas and already the Seine is frozen — ugh !"

She turned and faced the blaze. "How the poor must suffer!"

"I'll tell you a piece of news "

Josephine slipped off her lover's knees.

"No, no," she interrupted. "I am sick of news ! I know the royalists have been pardoned, and that there is a talk of reinstating the monarchy "

"Come back ; I want you."

"Hush! There is someone at the door."

Barras sprang to his feet.

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"Come in," said Josephine.

"The devil "

"Do I disturb you, my dear? It was such a fine afternoon, I ventured on a walk."

"Not at all. Delighted to see you, ma tante. I think you know M. Barras?"

"We are old friends," smiled Aunt Fanny, kissing her niece and extending a very thin hand to M. Barras.

Josephine led the old lady to the seat of honor on the sofa.