Josephine, in spite of her thirty-four years, or possibly because of
them (that enchanting age when woman hovers between her passing youth
and her corning age), Josephine, always beautiful, more graceful than
ever, was still the charming woman we all know. An imprudent remark
of Junot’s, at the time of her husband’s return, had produced a slight
coolness between them. But three days had sufficed to restore to the
enchantress her full power over the victor of Rivoli and the Pyramids.
She was doing the honors of her salon, when Roland entered the room.
Always incapable, like the true Creole she was, of controlling her
emotions, she gave a cry of joy, and held out her hand to him. She knew
that Roland was devoted to her husband; she knew his reckless bravery,
knew that if the young man had twenty lives he would willingly have
given them all for Bonaparte. Roland eagerly took the hand she offered
him, and kissed it respectfully. Josephine had known Roland’s mother in
Martinique; and she never failed, whenever she saw Roland, to speak
to him of his maternal grandfather, M. de la Clémencière, in whose
magnificent garden as a child she was wont to gather those wonderful
fruits which are unknown in our colder climates.
A subject of conversation was therefore ready at hand. She inquired
tenderly after Madame de Montrevel’s health, and that of her daughter
and little Edouard. Then, the information given, she said: “My dear
Roland, I must now pay attention to my other guests; but try to remain
after the other guests, or else let me see you alone to-morrow. I want
to talk to you about _him_” (she glanced at Bonaparte) “and have a
thousand things to tell you.” Then, pressing the young man’s hand with a
sigh, she added, “No matter what happens, you will never leave him, will
you?”
“What do you mean?” asked Roland, amazed.
“I know what I mean,” said Josephine, “and when you have talked ten
minutes with Bonaparte you will, I am sure, understand me. In the
meantime watch, and listen, and keep silence.”
Roland bowed and drew aside, resolved, as Josephine had advised, to play
the part of observer.
But what was there to observe? Three principal groups occupied the
salon. The first, gathered around Madame Bonaparte, the only woman
present, was more a flux and reflux than a group. The second,
surrounding Talma, was composed of Arnault, Parseval-Grandmaison, Monge,
Berthollet, and two or three other members of the Institute. The third,
which Bonaparte had just joined, counted in its circle Talleyrand,
Barras, Lucien, Admiral Bruix, [Footnote: AUTHOR’S NOTE.--Not to be
confounded with Rear-Admiral de Brueys, who was killed at Aboukir,
August 1, 1798. Admiral Bruix, the negotiator with Talleyrand of
the 18th Brumaire, did not die until 1805.] Roederer, Regnaud de
Saint-Jean-d’Angely, Fouché, Réal, and two or three generals, among whom
was Lefebvre.
In the first group they talked of fashions, music, the theatre; in the
second, literature, science, dramatic art; in the third, they talked
of everything except that which was uppermost in their minds. Doubtless
this reserve was not in keeping with Bonaparte’s own feeling at the
moment; for after sharing in this commonplace conversation for a short
time, he took the former bishop of Autun by the arm and led him into the
embrasure of the window.
“Well?” he asked.
Talleyrand looked at Bonaparte with that air which belonged to no one
but him.
“What did I tell you of Sièyes, general?”
“You told me to secure the support of those who regarded the friends of
the Republic as Jacobins, and to rely, upon it that Sièyes was at their
head.”
“I was not mistaken.”
“Then he will yield?”
“Better, he has yielded.”
“The man who wanted to shoot me at Fréjus for having landed without
being quarantined!”
“Oh, no; not for that.”
“But what then?”
“For not having looked at him or spoken to him at Gohier’s dinner.”
“I must confess that I did it on purpose. I cannot endure that unfrocked
monk.”
Bonaparte perceived, too late, that the speech he had just made was
like the sword of the archangel, double-edged; if Sièyes was unfrocked,
Talleyrand was unmitred. He cast a rapid glance at his companion’s face;
the ex-bishop of Autun was smiling his sweetest smile.
“Then I can count upon him?”
“I will answer for him.”
“And Cambacérès and Lebrun, have you seen them?”
“I took Sièyes in hand as the most recalcitrant. Bruix saw the other
two.”
The admiral, from the midst of the group, had never taken his eyes off
of the general and the diplomatist. He suspected that their conversation
had a special importance. Bonaparte made him a sign to join them. A less
able man would have done so at once, but Bruix avoided such a mistake.
He walked about the room with affected indifference, and then, as if he
had just perceived Talleyrand and Bonaparte talking together, he went up
to them.
“Bruix is a very able man!” said Bonaparte, who judged men as much by
little as by great things.
“And above all very cautious, general!” said Talleyrand.
“Yes. We will need a corkscrew to pull anything out of him.”
“Oh, no; on the contrary, now that he has joined us, he, will broach the
question frankly.”
And, indeed, no sooner had Bruix joined them than he began in words as
clear as they were concise: “I have seen them; they waver!”
“They waver! Cambacérès and Lebrun waver? Lebrun I can understand--a
sort of man of letters, a moderate, a Puritan; but Cambacérès--”
“But it is so.”
“But didn’t you tell them that I intended to make them each a consul?”
“I didn’t get as far as that,” replied Bruix, laughing.
“And why not?” inquired Bonaparte.
“Because this is the first word you have told me about your intentions,
Citizen General.”
“True,” said Bonaparte, biting his lips.
“Am I to repair the omission?” asked Bruix.
“No, no,” exclaimed Bonaparte hastily; “they might think I needed them.
I won’t have any quibbling. They must decide to-day without any other
conditions than those you have offered them; to-morrow it will be too
late. I feel strong enough to stand alone; and I now have Sièyes and
Barras.”
“Barras?” repeated the two negotiators astonished.
“Yes, Barras, who treated me like a little corporal, and wouldn’t send
me back to Italy, because, he said, I had made my fortune there, and it
was useless to return. Well, Barras--”
“Barras?”
“Nothing.” Then, changing his mind, “Faith! I may as well tell you. Do
you know what Barras said at dinner yesterday before me? That it was
impossible to go on any longer with the Constitution of the year III. He
admitted the necessity of a dictatorship; said he had decided to abandon
the reins of government, and retire; adding that he himself was looked
upon as worn-out, and that the Republic needed new men. Now, guess to
whom he thinks of transferring his power. I give it you, as Madame
de Sévigné says, in a hundred, thousand, ten thousand. No other than
General Hedouville, a worthy man, but I have only to look him in the
face to make him lower his eyes. My glance must have been blasting!
As the result, Barras came to my bedside at eight o’clock, to excuse
himself as best he could for the nonsense he talked the night before,
and admitted that I alone could save the Republic, and placed himself
at my disposal, to do what I wished, assume any rôle I might assign him,
begging me to promise that if I had any plan in my head I would count on
him--yes, on him; and he would be true to the crack of doom.”
“And yet,” said Talleyrand, unable to resist a play upon words, “doom is
not a word with which to conjure liberty.”
Bonaparte glanced at the ex-bishop.
“Yes, I know that Barras is your friend, the friend of Fouché and Réal;
but he is not mine, and I shall prove it to him. Go back to Lebrun and
Cambacérès, Bruix, and let them make their own bargain.” Then, looking
at his watch and frowning, he added: “It seems to me that Moreau keeps
us waiting.”
So saying, he turned to the group which surrounded Talma. The two
diplomatists watched him. Then Admiral Bruix asked in a low voice:
“What do you say, my dear Maurice, to such sentiments toward the man who
picked him out, a mere lieutenant, at the siege of Toulon, who trusted
him to defend the Convention on the 13th Vendémiaire, and who named him,
when only twenty-six, General-in-Chief of the Army in Italy?”
“I say, my dear admiral,” replied M. de Talleyrand, with his pallid
mocking smile, “that some services are so great that ingratitude alone
can repay them.”
At that moment the door opened and General Moreau was announced. At this
announcement, which was more than a piece of news--it was a surprise
to most of those present--every eye was turned toward the door. Moreau
appeared.
At this period three men were in the eyes of France. Moreau was one of
these three men. The two others were Bonaparte and Pichegru. Each had
become a sort of symbol. Since the 18th Fructidor, Pichegru had become
the symbol of monarchy; Moreau, since he had been christened Fabius,
was the symbol of the Republic; Bonaparte, symbol of war, dominated them
both by the adventurous aspect of his genius.
Moreau was at that time in the full strength of his age; we would
say the full strength of his genius, if decision were not one of the
characteristics of genius. But no one was ever more undecided than the
famous cunctator. He was thirty-six years old, tall, with a sweet, calm,
firm countenance, and must have resembled Xenophon.
Bonaparte had never seen him, nor had he, on his side, ever seen
Bonaparte. While the one was battling on the Adige and the Mincio, the
other fought beside the Danube and the Rhine. Bonaparte came forward to
greet him, saying: “You are welcome, general!”
“General,” replied Moreau, smiling courteously, while all present made a
circle around them to see how this new Cæsar would meet the new Pompey,
“you come from Egypt, victorious, while I come, defeated, from Italy.”
“A defeat which was not yours, and for which you are not responsible,
general. It was Joubert’s fault. If he had rejoined the Army of Italy
as soon as he had been made commander-in-chief, it is more than probable
that the Russians and Austrians, with the troops they then had, could
not have resisted him. But he remained in Paris for his honeymoon! Poor
Joubert paid with his life for that fatal month which gave the enemy
time to gather its reinforcements. The surrender of Mantua gave them
fifteen thousand men on the eve of the battle. It was impossible that
our poor army should not have been overwhelmed by such united forces.”
“Alas! yes,” said Moreau; “it is always the greater number which defeats
the smaller.”
“A great truth, general,” exclaimed Bonaparte; “an indisputable truth.”
“And yet,” said Arnault, joining in the conversation, “you yourself,
general, have defeated large armies with little ones.”
“If you were Marius, instead of the author of ‘Marius,’ you would
not say that, my dear poet. Even when I beat great armies with little
ones--listen to this, you young men who obey to-day, and will command
to-morrow--it was always the larger number which defeated the lesser.”
“I don’t understand,” said Arnault and Lefebvre together.
But Moreau made a sign with his head to show that he understood.
Bonaparte continued: “Follow my theory, for it contains the whole art
of war. When with lesser forces I faced a large army, I gathered mine
together, with great rapidity, fell like a thunderbolt on a wing of the
great army, and overthrew it; then I profited by the disorder into which
this manoeuvre never failed to throw the enemy to attack again, always
with my whole army, on the other side. I beat them, in this way, in
detail; and the victory which resulted was always, as you see, the
triumph of the many over the few.”
As the able general concluded his definition of his own genius, the door
opened and the servant announced that dinner was served.
“General,” said Bonaparte, leading Moreau to Josephine, “take in my
wife. Gentlemen, follow them.”
On this invitation all present moved from the salon to the dining-room.
After dinner, on pretence of showing him a magnificent sabre he had
brought from Egypt, Bonaparte took Moreau into his study. There the two
rivals remained closeted more than an hour. What passed between them?
What compact was signed? What promises were made? No one has ever known.
Only, when Bonaparte returned to the salon alone, and Lucien asked him:
“Well, what of Moreau?” he answered: “Just as I foresaw; he prefers
military power to political power. I have promised him the command of
an army.” Bonaparte smiled as he pronounced these words; then added, “In
the meantime--”
“In the meantime?” questioned Lucien.
“He will have that of the Luxembourg. I am not sorry to make him
the jailer of the Directors, before I make him the conqueror of the
Austrians.”
The next day the following appeared in the “Moniteur”:
PARIS, 17th Brumaire. Bonaparte has presented Moreau with a
magnificent Damascus sword set with precious stones which he
brought from Egypt, the value of which is estimated at twelve
thousand francs.