Josephine's Garden Page 6

  Fortu began to growl. The little dog escaped from Hortense and ran towards the gathered horses. He bounced on stiffened legs, challenging the immense black horse. He barked and pounced. The Friesian dropped its head, snorted, and stomped an iron-shod hoof.

  Rose leaped to her feet. ‘Fortu, come here!’

  The pug ignored her. A groom snatched for him, but Fortu yelped and twisted away. Hortense ran for him.

  ‘No, Hortense, stay here!’

  Rose hurried towards the horses. Fortu snarled at the Friesian, dancing between its massive legs. Any moment he could be squashed beneath those plate-like feet. A horn sounded. The hounds were barking, coming closer, longing for the hunt. My God, Rose thought, if he is not trampled he’ll surely be torn apart by the other dogs.

  Rose ducked away from the turning flank of a bay and felt the swipe of a coarse tail sting her face. All around her, churning hooves ground the gravel of the courtyard into dust. She reached for her pug just as the Hussar lunged at him and her dog sank his teeth into the gloved hand of the soldier.

  She pulled the dog from the soldier and closed her arms around her pug. Fortu licked her face, and she kissed him back. He scrabbled, turning around in her arms. Her foolish, brave, stupid little dog.

  The Hussar shook his hand as though that would remove the sting.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Rose apologised. ‘He’s very naughty.’

  The soldier smiled beneath his impressive moustache. ‘A brave soul,’ he said.

  More than you know, Rose thought, tucking her fingers under Fortu’s collar and rubbing his neck. The dog panted as though this was all a game. She thought of him running the gauntlet of the prison guards, squeezing through the bars of her cell, bringing her messages from her children. She kissed his soft, wrinkled head.

  The horns sounded again. The hunt was leaving. The Hussar swung back up onto his horse, towering above her with his tall fur hat. The openness of his gaze unsettled her. The Friesian tossed its head, flicking its forelock away and aiming an eye on her. Its curving, muscular neck was slick with sweat, ribbons of veins pulsing beneath the skin. Standing so close, she could smell the heady scent of it.

  ‘Thank you,’ she called up to the Hussar. ‘Thank you for saving him. He means the world to me.’ She nuzzled her pug’s soft ears.

  ‘It is an honour, Madame, to receive his attentions. The jealousy of your pug is legendary.’ His smile was tauntingly wicked. Rose coloured. Had he heard the gossip that Fortu had bitten Bonaparte’s leg on their wedding night?

  The Hussar laughed and saluted, before backing his magnificent horse away from her and thundering after the hunt. Rose felt the thud of its hooves beneath the rhythm of her heart. She had not felt this giddy since falling in love with Lazare Hoche. This is a foolish fancy, I am not a girl anymore, I am a woman who had promised herself to guard her heart and think of her future. But Rose’s stomach flipped and sent flutters to her chest that would not go away. She moaned. Why could she not feel this way for the man she had married? Her heart thudded relentlessly. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Summer 1796

  The naturalist Jacques Labillardière stood at the rear of the line of commissioners waiting to be presented to General Napoleon Bonaparte and his wife. The woman had lately arrived from Paris to join her husband in Milan and this banquet at the Serbelloni Palace was being held in her honour. He tapped the toe of his foot on the marble floor, setting it ringing in the cavernous space. His hands were clasped behind his back and his thumbs flicked in irritation. All these eminent men of science kept waiting. He frowned. It was a waste of his time. That morning he had stumbled on a most exquisite depiction of the mosses of the Lombardy in the Ambrosiana library and itched to return to it. Only his curiosity about the much-lauded General Bonaparte kept him in line.

  ‘This has all the hallmarks of a royal reception,’ Labillardière whispered to André Thouin, wondering if the General kept them waiting purely to establish his importance over them all. ‘I thought he was one of us.’

  ‘A botanist?’ Thouin scoffed.

  ‘A republican, not a royalist,’ Labillardière hissed.

  Despite his misgivings, Labillardière was interested to meet this military genius. It was said Bonaparte appreciated an enquiring mind and was well versed in many matters of science. Some time ago, Labillardière had travelled to Corsica, the General’s homeland, and he would enjoy the opportunity to discuss the flora. Besides there were matters of their mission here that troubled Labillardière and he would like to assess the man for himself.

  When Jacques Labillardière had received the summons from the Directoire, André Thouin, his friend and fellow botanist, had convinced him to accept by saying that General Bonaparte himself had selected him for this mission. He was told the commissioners were to follow the advancing French army as they pushed out the Austrians from Italy, examining works of art and literature and collections of science and natural history that the Italians were made to submit to the French under the terms of their treaty. These spoils of war were to be brought back to Paris, to the Louvre, which was to become a safe repository of cultural treasures. An archive of learning. At the time, Labillardière had thought it a meritorious aim.

  Labillardière had only recently returned from his expedition to the South Seas. He had survived a long and dangerous voyage and imprisonment in Java, but had never truly believed the reports that came from France, that the Revolution had turned upon itself, that the National Assembly had indeed become a tyrant in its own right. For so long he had dreamed of an egalitarian France, only to arrive home and find the rot had taken hold like mould consuming bread. So many of his old republican friends were dead. Even the gentle Marquis de Condorcet, whom he learned had cheated the guillotine by taking a draught of poison.

  No one was interested in his voyage of discovery. And, worse still, his collections had been captured by the British and were still held as a prize of war. He had nothing to show for all he had endured. There was nothing for him to do but write letters imploring the British botanist Banks to release his specimens and wait in agony for a reply. Being idle put him in a foul temper, as did knowing he could not make a name for himself without those plants.

  He felt disconnected from this new France. The people had thrown all decency aside. They cared for nothing other than selfish pleasures. The mark of highest status was not one’s learning, as he had hoped, but how many months one had spent in prison during the Terror. When he’d left five years earlier, people spoke of patriotism and liberty, but on his return all he saw was desire for power and riches, an intoxication with glory and vanity. The aristocracy was gone, but what replaced it made him shudder with disgust.

  It had been late in May—or early Prairial, according to the new Republican calendar—when the commissioners set off in two heavy postal wagons. Labillardière had scoffed openly at the new names for the months of the year that were based on the weather in Paris, only to find that his fellow commissioners were among the men tasked with renaming the calendar. They made an unusual collection of travelling companions. The two botanists joined a painter, a sculptor, a chemist and a mathematician. At Lanslebourg, they hired forty mules to carry the dismantled wagons before climbing the Col du Mont-Cenis. Labillardière preferred to walk and was thrilled to be among the alpine plants in full bloom. His breath puffed out ahead of him and he carried a pack full of fresh specimens. He had made the right decision to join this expedition, he concluded, as he plucked a bright anemone flower from the melting snow. Some good at least had come from leaving Paris. He could do nothing there but wait for his letters to the British to be answered and his collections be returned. A darkness filled his thoughts when he considered the possibility they might be lost to him. A hollowness. He would not let himself dwell on undesirable outcomes. Banks was a man of science. He would understand.

  The commissioners descended into the breathless heat at Turin and continued on to Milan following Bon
aparte’s army.

  In Milan they took thousands of precious manuscripts from the Ambrosiana and Brera libraries. Labillardière had held in his hands original codices by Leonardo da Vinci and Galileo. He blew the centuries-old dust from their covers and marvelled that he could touch the actual pages that these men had penned. He looked upon original works of art by the Italian masters—Correggio, Michelangelo, Raphael and more—and watched the tears fall down the faces of the museum curators as their treasures were taken from them.

  The commission followed the army to Bologna. The pink city, presided over by two great medieval towers, was the latest of Bonaparte’s conquests. Looking up at the faded red bricks of the towers, Labillardière wondered if the sentries had watched the approaching army, knowing they were powerless to stop it. He found Bologna to be a town proud of its university, so much so that a deputation of local citizens met with the commissioners to plead for their natural history collections. Labillardière had to witness the moment of comprehension on their faces when they realised their pleas were falling on closed ears.

  Labillardière convinced himself that the irreplaceable manuscripts, herbaria and works of art were safest in Paris. If these towns and cities could so easily fall, perhaps Paris was a better repository for the accumulated knowledge of Europe. He could imagine the Louvre becoming a great academic centre of learning for all. This was for the best. Perhaps the Directoire was right to make Paris the centre of Europe. But he could not erase the look of disdain on the face of Luigi Galvani as the savant relinquished his precious research papers. Labillardière felt like a thief. Galvani looked at him with open contempt for daring to take his life’s work, accusing him of treachery with his stare. Men of science did not behave this way. Labillardière knew it. He was breaking his own moral code. The pursuit of knowledge was a higher calling than the accumulation of riches and glory. Labillardière could not meet the man’s eye.

  And yet, Labillardière was among the group who gathered to watch Galvani re-create his famous experiments. His curiosity overcame his conscience. At Thouin’s urging, Galvani re-enacted the jolt of electricity that could set a dead frog’s limbs jumping like a puppet on a string. Labillardière searched his face but saw no pleasure in the demonstration of his discoveries. As the frog’s limbs were made to dance with no will of its own, Galvani must have seen himself.

  Now, back in Milan, these thoughts troubled Labillardière as he waited to enter the formal dining room in the Serbelloni Palace. The palace was a monument in marble. The walls of the ballroom were lined with towering panels of pink and grey marble from Carrara. How many men had died in Italy’s quarries to build this palace? Mirrors at each end of the room reflected the multi-coloured panels and the glittering chandeliers, giving the illusion that the space continued without end. It was the sort of room designed to give an impression of domination.

  The ballroom doors were thrown open at last and Labillardière watched as a short, slender woman was ushered in, dressed in something flowing white and almost transparent. Her arms were bare and she wore a gold circlet around her head as if she meant to compare herself to a Roman goddess. He looked past her. Disappointingly, General Bonaparte himself was not with his wife. ‘Has the woman forgotten to wear a gown?’ Labillardière hissed to Thouin. ‘She is barely dressed.’

  ‘Shh,’ Thouin cautioned, pressing a finger to his lips.

  No doubt she held a certain charm for some men, Labillardière observed. In the line before him, the commissioners drew themselves up two inches taller, sucked in their bellies and inflated their chests. He shook his head to see such learned men behaving like fools. She advanced down the line, greeting each of the savants as if he was the most brilliant she had yet met. Even Gaspard Monge, a mathematician who should have known better, seemed smitten as he stammered and blushed. Labillardière expected the gushing compliments from the artists, but he had hoped for more decorum from these men of science. The chemist Berthollet, a grey-haired man in his fifties, dropped to one knee to kiss her hand. Labillardière looked away, embarrassed for the man.

  The General’s wife was accompanied by an ornately dressed Hussar, with cape, sword and luxuriant moustache. As she drew closer, Labillardière studied the woman. He had to admit that her arms were exquisitely shapely.

  ‘You remind me of the women of Tongatabou,’ he said by way of greeting, pleased with his compliment. ‘They were the most graceful of the savages we met in the South Seas.’

  The soldier drew his sabre with a metallic shriek.

  ‘Those island women were plump and beautiful,’ he said in explanation, frowning at the shining sword.

  The General’s wife smiled, surprised. ‘All the natural grace of a savage? Is that my Creole heritage you mean to mock?’

  Labillardière glimpsed her small, blackened teeth, ruined by decay. He was about to suggest a remedy of finely powdered coral when he felt Thouin grasp his arm and pinch it hard.

  ‘Forgive my friend,’ Thouin interrupted. ‘He has not been in society for some time.’

  ‘You are an explorer, Citizen Labillardière?’ the General’s wife asked.

  ‘A botanist.’

  ‘Ah!’ Her eyes lit up. ‘We must talk more about your travels! I hope we will be seated near one another at dinner this evening. You see, I miss the plants of my homeland in Martinique and I have great plans to bring them to France.’

  The cavalry soldier guided her towards the dining room, glancing back and narrowing his eyes at Labillardière before he sheathed his sword.

  She called over her shoulder to Labillardière, ‘I’m sure our paths will cross again!’

  At the dining table, Labillardière deftly swapped seats at the final moment, placing André Thouin between himself and the General’s wife. She chatted gaily, seducing Thouin with her praise of the Jardin des Plantes. She seemed to think it was a pleasure garden for the idle rich and not a place of dedicated learning.

  Napoleon Bonaparte had not yet arrived, but all the dignitaries of Milan and their wives had taken their seats at the dining table. They sat upright, stiffly formal and unsmiling, sliding looks to one another as if uncomfortable in their own palace. The Milanese were waiting for the Frenchman who was now their ruler.

  Labillardière was impatient to see for himself what sort of man General Bonaparte might be—if he truly was a man of science and learned inquiry. Of late, as more and more art, jewels and money were taken to finance the army, he had become conflicted about the war. And his experience in Pavia was weighing heavily on his mind.

  Pavia’s university was a famed temple of learning and he had been eager to speak with the professors, to see the famous Antonio Scarpa in his dissecting theatre. These Italian universities had the celebration of learning in their very bones. But the peasants of Pavia had stood silent and watchful in their wet fields as the commission passed through the outskirts of town. En route from Milan they had travelled through burned villages and heard of mobs that had revolted against Bonaparte. These people did not appreciate being liberated from Austria, Labillardière realised, nor relieved of their treasures.

  Flanked by an armed guard, they walked through the town with only the sound of marching boots and pikes striking the cobbles ringing out in the silent streets. Where were all the people? Labillardière wondered. The only signs of life came from the cats sprawled on thresholds and windowsills, unconcerned.

  The commissioners and their guards turned a corner into a plaza and came upon a grisly sight. The company halted. Labillardière felt chills at the back of his neck despite the baking heat in the plaza. The steps of the cathedral were stained with blood.

  Labillardière scanned the empty plaza. He could see the signs of violent pillage in the mended doors and shuttered windows. ‘What happened here?’ Labillardière demanded of one of the French guards.

  ‘Rebels attacked our garrison and captured our men. Bonaparte had all the town council and a hundred peasants brought here and shot.’

 
A flock of pigeons burst from the roof of the cathedral, startling the guards, who drew their weapons.

  Sickened, Labillardière turned away. These people had a right to be outraged at what had happened in their town. And now he was to face men like himself, savants, men of science who had sacrificed much to build their collections. How was he to strip them of their life’s work for a Frenchman who had brought such violence on the town?

  They walked the rest of the way in silence while Labillardière grappled with his conscience. Despite his reservations, his heart lifted to see the university buildings, their walls painted in sunny hues of golden yolk, burnt orange and custard. He thought of the accumulation of knowledge behind these walls, built like stone on stone, each idea forming a solid base for the next. He walked beneath a shaded portico, staring up at the family shields carved and painted on the plaster. So many centuries of learned men had passed beneath this same arch. He felt a type of reverence that the religious must feel for their churches. For Labillardière, it was like finding a home.

  In the quadrangle, students sat at small benches, eating and drinking in the shade, but they fell silent when the commissioners and their armed guards clattered to a halt. Sweat trickled down Labillardière’s back. He saw the medieval sentry towers, tall columns of red brick, studded with slits meant for arrow fire. Beside him, Thouin was staring up at those dark holes, no doubt wondering who might be drawing back a bow behind those walls, wondering how vigorously these men of learning might defend their knowledge. But Labillardière saw no arrow heads aimed at them, only a small green parrot finding a foothold on a high ledge, watching.

  A thin man, with curling hair receding from his forehead, walked out alone into the searing heat of the quadrangle to greet them. He wore a cape of rich burgundy over his dark jacket and culottes. His face was pale. The man stopped before them, beads of sweat gathering on his forehead; a man more used to his laboratory, Labillardière assumed, than venturing out in this penetrating sunlight. His eyes were deep and his cheekbones high and sharp.