“We must find out if he’s from the Beaumanoir family in Brittany. That’s a good name to have.”
“Shall I keep reading?”
“Go ahead.”
Bourrienne continued:
“‘You will understand, General, that when a man is eighty-six years old and has served his country for more than sixty years without the slightest interruption, it is difficult to be sent away and forced to find refuge on Jersey, where I try to subsist on the government’s feeble attempts to help French émigrés.
“‘I use the word “émigrés” because that is what I was forced to become. Leaving France had never been in my plans, and I had committed no crime except for being the most senior general in the canton and being decorated with the great cross of Saint-Louis.
“‘One evening they came to kill me. They broke down my door. I was alerted by my neighbors’ shouts and barely had the time to escape with nothing but the clothes I had on my back. Seeing that I risked death in France, I abandoned all that I owned, real estate and furniture, and since I had no place to put my feet in my own country, I joined one of my older brothers here. He had been deported and was senile, and now I wouldn’t leave him for anything in the world. My mother-in-law is eighty years old, and they have refused to give her a portion of my estate, on the pretext that everything I owned had been confiscated. Thus, if things don’t change, I shall die bankrupt, and that saddens me greatly.
“‘I admit, General, that I have not adapted to the new style, but according to former customs,
“‘I am your humble servant.
“‘Durosel Beaumanoir’”
“Well, General, what do you say?”
“I say,” the First Consul replied with a slight catch in his voice, “that I am profoundly moved to hear such things. This is a sacred debt, Bourrienne. Write to General Durosel, and I shall sign the letter. Send him ten thousand francs and say that he can expect more, for I would like to do more for this man who helped my father. I shall take care of him. But, speaking of debts, Bourrienne, I have some serious business to talk about with you.” Bonaparte sat down with a frown.
Bourrienne remained standing near his chair. Bonaparte said, “I want to talk to you about Josephine’s debts.”
Bourrienne gave a start. “Very well,” he said. “And where do you get your information?”
“From what I hear in public.”
Like a man who has not fully understood but who dares ask no questions, Bourrienne leaned forward.
“Just imagine, my friend”—Bonaparte sometimes forgot himself and dropped formal address—“that I went out with Duroc to find out for myself what people are saying.”
“And are they saying many negative things about the First Consul?”
“Well,” Bonaparte answered with a laugh, “I nearly got myself killed when I said something bad about him. Without Duroc, who used his club, I believe we might have been arrested and taken to the Château-d’Eau guardhouse.”
“Still, that fails to explain how, in the midst of all the praise for the First Consul, the question of Madame Bonaparte’s debts came up.”
“In fact, in the midst of all that praise for the First Consul, people were saying horrible things about his wife. They’re saying that Madame Bonaparte is ruining her husband with all the clothes she’s buying; they’re saying she has debts everywhere, that her cheapest dress cost one hundred louis and her least expensive hat two hundred francs. I don’t believe a word of that, Bourrienne, you understand. But where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Last year I paid debts of three hundred thousand francs; she reminded me that I had not sent her any money from Egypt. All well and good. But now things are different; I’m giving Josephine six thousand francs a month for clothes. That should be enough. People used the same kinds of words against Marie-Antoinette. You must check with Josephine, Bourrienne, and set things straight.”
“You’ll never know,” Bourrienne answered, “how happy I am that you yourself have brought up this subject. This morning, as you were impatiently waiting for me to appear, Madame Bonaparte asked me to talk to you about the difficult position in which she finds herself.”
“Difficult position, Bourrienne! What do you mean by that, monsieur?” Bonaparte asked, suddenly reverting back to more formal speech.
“I mean that she is being harassed.”
“By whom?”
“By her creditors.”
“Her creditors! I thought I had got rid of her creditors.”
“A year ago, yes.”
“Well?”
“Well, in the past year, things have totally changed. One year ago she was the wife of General Bonaparte. Today she is the wife of the First Consul.”
“Bourrienne, that’s enough. My ears have heard enough of prattle.”
“That’s my opinion, General.”
“It is up to you to take care of paying everything.”
“I would be happy to. Give me the necessary sum, and I shall quickly take care of it, I guarantee.”
“How much do you need?”
“How much do I need? Well, yes.…”
“Well?”
“Well, Madame Bonaparte doesn’t dare tell you.”
“What? She doesn’t dare tell me? And how about you?”
“Nor do I, General.”
“Nor do you! Then it must be a colossal amount!”
Bourrienne sighed.
“Let’s see now,” Bonaparte continued. “If I pay for this year like last year, and give you three hundred thousand francs.…”
Bourrienne didn’t say a word. Bonaparte looked at him worriedly. “Say something, you imbecile!”
“Well, if you give me three hundred thousand francs, General, you would be giving me only half of the debt.”
“Half!” shouted Bonaparte, getting to his feet. “Six hundred thousand francs! … She owes … six hundred thousand francs?”
Bourrienne nodded.
“She admitted she owed that amount?”
“Yes, General.”
“And where does she expect me to get the money to pay these six hundred thousand francs? From my five-hundred-thousand-franc salary as consul?”
“Oh, she assumes you have several thousand franc bills hid somewhere in reserve.”
“Six hundred thousand francs!” Bonaparte repeated. “And at the same time my wife is spending six hundred thousand francs on clothing, I’m giving one hundred francs as pension to the widow and children of brave soldiers killed at the Pyramids or Marengo! And I can’t even give money to all of them! And they have to live the whole year on those one hundred francs, while Madame Bonaparte wears dresses worth one hundred louis and hats worth twenty-five. You must have heard incorrectly, Bourrienne, it surely cannot be six hundred thousand francs.”
“I heard perfectly well, General, and Madame Bonaparte realized what her situation was only yesterday when she saw a bill for gloves that came to forty thousand francs.”
“What are you saying?” shouted Bonaparte.
“I’m saying forty thousand francs for gloves, General. What do you expect? That is how things are. Yesterday she went over her accounts with Madame Hulot. She spent the night in tears, and