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

As soon as Bonaparte was arisen, his valet Constant would shave him and brush his hair. Bourrienne, meanwhile, would read him the newspapers, first Le Moniteur and then the English or German papers. Bourrienne would barely have read the headlines from one of the dozen French newspapers being published at that time before Bonaparte would say: “That’s enough; they say only what I let them say.”

Once he was dressed and ready for the day, he would go up to his study along with Bourrienne. There he would find the letters he would need to read that day and the reports from the day before that he would need to sign.

At exactly ten o’clock the door would open and the butler would announce: “The general is served.”

Breakfast was simple, only three dishes plus dessert. One of the dishes was almost always the chicken prepared with oil and onions that he had been served as well on the morning of the Battle of Marengo, and since that day the dish has been called chicken Marengo.

Bonaparte drank only a little wine, a Bordeaux or Burgundy, and then, after breakfast or dinner, he would have a cup of coffee. If he worked unusually late at night, at midnight he would have a cup of chocolate.

Early on, he began to use tobacco, but only three or four times a day, in very small amounts, and he always carried it in very elegant gold or enamel boxes.

On this particular day early in our Revolutionary year IX, as usual, Bourrienne had come down to the study at six thirty, opened the letters, and placed them on the large table, the most important ones on the bottom, so that Bonaparte would read them last and they would be fresh in his mind.

When the clock struck seven, he went to wake the general. Bourrienne had a key to Bonaparte’s bedroom, so he could enter whenever necessary, at any time of day or night.

To his great surprise, he found Madame Bonaparte alone in bed. She was weeping.

Bourriene’s first instinct was to turn and leave. But Madame Bonaparte, who admired Bourrienne and knew that she could count on him, stopped him. She asked him to sit down on the bed beside her.

Bourrienne was worried. “Oh, madame,” he asked. “Has anything happened to the First Consul?”

“No, Bourrienne, no,” Josephine had answered. “Something has happened to me.”

“What, madame?”

“Oh, my dear Bourrienne. How unfortunate I am!”

Bourrienne began to laugh. “I bet I can guess what’s wrong,” he said.

“My suppliers,” stammered Josephine.

“Are they refusing to supply you?”

“Oh, if that’s all it was!”

“Could they be so impertinent as to ask to be paid?” asked Bourrienne with a laugh.

“They are threatening to sue me! Imagine how embarrassing it would be for me, my dear Bourrienne, if an official order landed in Bonaparte’s hands!”

“Do you think they would dare?”

“There is no doubt in my mind.”

“Impossible!”

“Look here.”

And out from under her pillow Josephine pulled a sheet of paper imprinted with a symbol of the Republic. It was an official summons demanding of the First Consul the sum of forty thousand francs in payment for gloves delivered to Madame Bonaparte his wife. As chance would have it, the order had fallen into Madame Bonaparte’s hands rather than her husband’s. The proceedings were being carried out on behalf of Madame Giraud.

“Damn!” said Bourrienne. “This is serious! Did you authorize your entire household to buy gloves from that woman?”

“No, my dear Bourrienne; those forty thousand francs worth of gloves were for me alone.”

“For you alone?”

“Yes.”

“You must not have paid anything for ten years!”

“I settled accounts with all my suppliers and paid them last year on the first of January. I paid three hundred thousand francs. I remember how angry Bonaparte was then, which is why I’m quaking now.”

“And you have worn forty thousand francs worth of gloves since the first of January last year?”

“Apparently so, Bourrienne, since that’s what they’re asking.”

“Well, then, what you expect me to do about it?”

“If Bonaparte is in good humor this morning, perhaps you could bring up the subject with him.”

“First of all, why is he not here with you? Have you quarreled?” Bourrienne asked.

“No, not at all. He was feeling fine last night when he left with Duroc to check out, as he says, what Parisians are thinking about. He probably came home late and, not wishing to disturb me, went to sleep in his bachelor’s quarters.”

“And if he is in good humor and I do speak to him of your debts, when he asks me how much you owe, how shall I answer?”

“Ah, Bourrienne!” Josephine hid her face behind her sheet.

“So, the figure is frightening?”

“Enormous.”

“How much?”

“I don’t dare tell you.”

“Three hundred thousand francs?”

Josephine gave a sigh.

“Six hundred thousand?”

Another sigh, even heavier than the first.

“I must say that you are indeed beginning to frighten me,” said Bourrienne.

“I spent the whole night adding sums up with my dear friend Madame Hulot, who is very good at such things. As you know, Bourrienne, I don’t have a head for figures.”

“So how much do you owe?”

“More than twelve hundred thousand francs.”

Bourrienne gave a start. “You’re right,” he said, and he was no longer laughing. “The First Consul will indeed be furious.”

“Let’s just tell him it’s half that amount.”

“Not a good strategy,” said Bourrienne shaking his head. “While you’re at it, I advise you to admit everything.”

“No, Bourrienne. Never!”

“But what will you do about the other six hundred thousand francs?”

“First of all, I shall contract no more debts, because they make me too unhappy.”

“But how about the other six hundred thousand?” Bourrienne asked again.

“I shall pay them out of what I can save.”

“That won’t work. Since the First Consul is not expecting the figure of six hundred thousand francs, he will make no more of a fuss for twelve hundred thousand than for six. On the contrary, since the blow is more violent, he will be in even greater shock. He will give you the twelve hundred thousand francs, and you will be over and done with it.”

“No, no,” cried Josephine. “Don’t make me do that, Bourrienne. I know him too well. He’ll fly into one of his rages, and I can’t stand seeing him get so violent.”

At that moment Bonaparte’s bell rang for his office boy, probably to find out where Bourrienne was.

“That’s him,” said Josephine. “He’s already in his study. Hurry, and if he’s in a good mood, you know.…”

“Twelve hundred thousand francs, right?”

“Heavens, no! Six hundred thousand, and not a penny more!”

“That’s what you wish?”

“Please.”

“Very well.”

And Bourrienne hurried up the little staircase to the First Consul’s study.

WHEN BOURRIENNE RETURNED to the study, the First Consul was reading the morning mail that the secretary had laid out for him on his desk. He was wearing the uniform of a Republican division general, a frock coat without epaulettes with a simple gold laurel branch, buckskin pants, a red vest with wide lapels, and boots with their tops turned down. At the sound of his secretary’s footsteps, Bonaparte turned his head.