The Last Cavalier: Being the Adventures of Count Sainte-Hermine in the Age of Napoleon

Dubois bowed, and, encouraged by Fouché, he went on: “According to what Your Excellency is saying, you need a man who can shoot if necessary.”

“That, and whatever else is necessary.”

Monsieur Dubois thought for a moment and shook his head. “I have no one like that among my men,” he said.

But, when Fouché gestured impatiently, Dubois recalled: “Wait a moment. Yesterday a man came to my office, a certain Chevalier de Mahalin, a fellow who was a member of the Companions of Jehu and who asks for nothing better, he says, than well-paid dangers. He is a gambler in every sense of the word, ready to risk his life as well as his money on a throw of the dice. He’s our man.”

“Do you have his address?”

“No. But he is coming back to my office today sometime between one and two o’clock. It is now one o’clock, so he must be there already or else he will be soon.”

“Go, then, and bring him back here.”

When Monsieur Dubois had left, Fouché pulled a file from its box and carried it over to his desk. It was the Pichegru file, and he studied it with the greatest attention until Monsieur Dubois returned with the man he’d talked about.

It was the same man who had visited Hector de Sainte-Hermine regarding the promises he’d made to his brother and who then had led him to Laurent’s band. Now disbanded, with nothing more to be done in Cadoudal’s cause, the good man was looking elsewhere for work.

He was probably between twenty-five and thirty years old, well built, and quite handsome. He had a pleasant smile, and you could have said he was likeable in every respect, except for a troubled and disturbing look in his eyes that often caused people he dealt with worry and concern.

Fouché examined him with a penetrating look that enabled him to take any man’s moral measure. In this man he could sense the love of money, great courage, though he seemed more ready to defend himself than to attack another, and the absolute will to succeed in any undertaking. That was exactly what Fouché was looking for.

“Monsieur,” said Fouché, “I have been assured that you would like to enter government service. Is that correct?”

“That is my greatest wish.”

“In what role?”

“Wherever there are blows to receive and money to be earned.”

“Do you know Brittany and the Vendée?”

“Perfectly well. Three times I have been sent to meet General Cadoudal.”

“Have you been in contact with those serving just beneath him?”

“With some of them, and particularly with one of Cadoudal’s lieutenants—he’s called George II because he looks like the general.”

“Damn!” said Fouché. “That might be useful. Do you believe you could raise three bands of about twenty men each?”

“It is always possible, in a region still warm from civil war, to raise three bands of twenty men. If the purpose is honorable, honest men will easily make up your sixty, and for them all you will need are grand words and elegant speech. If the purpose is less principled and demands secrecy, you will still be able to enlist mercenaries, but to buy their questionable consciences will cost you more.”

Fouché gave Dubois a look that seemed to be saying, “My good man, you have indeed come up with a real find.” Then, to the chevalier, he said, “Monsieur, within ten days we need three bands of incendiaries, two in the Morbihan and one in the Vendée, all three of them acting in Cadoudal’s name. In one of the bands a masked man must assume the name of the Breton general and do all that he can to convince the populace that he really is Cadoudal.”

“Easy, but expensive, as I have said.”

“Are fifty thousand francs enough?”

“Yes. Unquestionably.”

“So then, we are agreed on that point. Once your three bands have been organized, will you be able to go to England?”

“There is nothing simpler, given that my background is English and that I speak the language as well as I do my mother tongue.”

“Do you know Pichegru?”

“By name.”

“Do you have a means of getting introduced to him?”

“Yes.”

“And if I asked you how?”

“I would not tell you. After all, I need to keep some secrets; otherwise, I would lose all my value.”

“So you would. And so you will go to England, where you will check out Pichegru and try to discover under what circumstances he would be willing to come back to Paris. Were he to wish to return to Paris but finds money to be lacking, you will propose funds in the name of Fauche-Borel. Don’t forget that name.”

“The Swiss bookseller who has already made proposals to him in the name of the Prince de Condé; yes, I know him. And were he to wish to return to Paris and needs money, to whom should I turn?”

“To Monsieur Fouché, at his domain in Pontcarré. Not to the Minister of Police, the difference is important.”

“And then?”

“And then you will return to Paris for new orders. Monsieur Dubois, please count out fifty thousand francs for the chevalier. By the way, chevalier.…”

Mahalin turned around.

“If you should happen to meet Coster Saint-Victor, encourage him to come back to Paris.”

“Does he not risk arrest?”

“No, all will be forgiven, that I can affirm.”

“What shall I say to convince him?”

“That all the women in Paris miss him, and especially Mademoiselle Aurélie de Saint-Amour. You may add that after being a rival to Barras for her charms, it would be a shame for him not also to be a rival to the First Consul. That should be enough to help him make up his mind to return, unless he has even more extraordinary liaisons in London.”

Once the door had shut on Dubois and Mahalin, Fouché quickly had an orderly carry the following letter to Doctor Cabanis:

My dear doctor,

The First Consul, whom I have just seen in Madame Bonaparte’s apartments, could not have more graciously received Madame de Sourdis’s request concerning her daughter’s marriage, and he is pleased to see such a marriage take place.

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

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.