The Last Cavalier: Being the Adventures of Count Sainte-Hermine in the Age of Napoleon. Alexandre Dumas
say that no single image of the First Consul or the Emperor exists that is a perfect likeness.
When he was First Consul, they managed to paint or sculpt his prominent cranium, his magnificent brow, the hair that he plastered down over his temples and let fall to his shoulders, his tanned face, long and thin, with its meditative physiognomy.
As Emperor, in their depictions, his head resembles an antique medallion and his pale, unhealthy skin marks a man who will die young. They could draw his hair as black as ebony, to show off his dark complexion to full effect, but neither the chisel nor the brush could render the dancing flames in his eyes or capture the somber cast of his features when he was in deep thought.
With the speed of lightning the expression in his eyes obeyed his will. In anger, nobody looked more fearsome; in kindness, no one’s gaze was more caressing. Indeed, for each thought that traversed his soul he had a different expression.
He was short of stature, scarcely five feet three inches tall, and yet Kléber, who stood a head taller than he, once said to him as he placed his hand on his shoulder, “General, you are as big as the world!” And at that moment he did seem truly a head taller than Kléber.
He had lovely hands. He was proud of his hands and cared for them as a woman might have done. In conversation, he would frequently glance at them with admiration. Only on his left hand would he wear a glove; he kept his right hand bare, ostensibly so it would be ready should he want to reach out to someone he might choose to so honor, but in reality it was so he could admire his hand and shine his nails with a cambric handkerchief. Monsieur de Turenne, part of whose job it was to help the Emperor dress, came to the point where he would order gloves only for his left hand, thus saving six thousand francs a year.
He could not stand inactivity. Even in his private apartments he would constantly pace up and down, all the while leaning slightly forward, as if the weight of every thought in his head was forcing his neck to bend, and holding his hands clasped behind his back. His right shoulder would frequently jerk, and at the same time the muscles in his mouth would tighten. These ticks, these habits of mind and body, some people mistook for convulsive movements from which they deduced that Bonaparte must be subject to epileptic attacks.
He was passionate about bathing. Sometimes he would stay in his bath for two or three hours while the secretary or an aide read him the newspapers or a pamphlet the police had brought to his notice. Once he was in his bath, he would leave the hot faucet open, with no concern if the bath overflowed. Often, when Bourrienne, soaked with steam, could bear it no longer, he would ask if he could open the window or leave the room. In general, his request was granted.
Bonaparte truly loved to sleep. When his secretary woke him at seven, he would frequently complain, saying: “Oh, just let me sleep a little longer.” “Don’t come into my bedroom at night,” he would say. “Never wake me up for good news, for there’s no hurry to hear good news. But if ever there is bad news, wake me up immediately, for then there’s not a moment to be lost.”
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