“Apparently, she concluded more quickly than most that I have little information.” My tone was deliberately ironic.
“I’ve no doubt she can operate in social circles we cannot,” Astiza said. “But if we leave her to her own devices by lodging her elsewhere, we’ll have no idea what she’s up to. So until we repair the conspiracy, we must pretend she’s our governess.” My wife is eminently practical. “I’d prefer her homelier, however.”
“She’s a muddy wick next to your chandelier,” I lied with husbandly instinct. “It’s good you two are cooperating.”
“Only because it’s obvious she’s not attracted to you, Ethan.” And she nudged her horse ahead to converse quietly with the comtesse, me brooding about unflattering observations the pair might be making about my character.
France’s soil is the foundation of its power. In April, that means mud. We averaged five miles an hour on horseback, sometimes waiting until dusk before approaching the farmhouses of royalist sympathizers that Butron had arranged as safe houses. Then we’d dry out, dine, and plot fruitlessly about the future, each refuge offering a distinct French smell of hay, wine, manure, baking bread, and wood-smoke that is characteristic of rural shelter. We were dangerous to host but a respite from boredom. As firelight flickered and cows mooed, the Bourbon conspirators waxed nostalgic. The French love to argue, and I spiced the conversation by serving as philosophic foil.
“Unlike some Americans, you seem to have escaped the seductions of the revolutionaries,” Butron told me.
“They went too far with the guillotine. Tom Jefferson is a kindlier democrat, and good dinner company to boot. France needs moderation, is my advice. Extremism never works.”
“The Jacobins governed with atheism, anarchy, and theft.”
“The irony is that Napoleon has declared the revolution over, invited the church back, and even welcomed exiled nobles, if they swear allegiance. I want to defeat the bastard, yes, but he’s really one of you in believing in order and authority.” I’m nothing if not fair, even to tyrants. “Isn’t the choice one king against another, the exiled Bourbons or Napoleon?”
“No. Bonaparte the usurper buys people, paying for them with cruel taxes and reckless borrowing. He purchases some with money, some with promotion, and some with promises, be they émigrés or bishops. Then he sets them against one another. He’s no right to rule. He doesn’t recognize high birth. The result is naked ambition and ruthless competition. Napoleon uncorks the worst in human nature.”
“Which of us isn’t bought, my friends—with everything from social status to the promise of heaven?”
“You’re too judicious, American. It’s a weakness.”
“I just have the perspective of an outsider who’s met the man. Pompous and ambitious, yes, but clever as the devil.” My views were tolerated because I could turn a storied ogre into a comprehensible politician. “He succeeds by merit. Memory like a ledger. He understands soldiers, is a quick study of politics, and naturally commands.”
“I hear he’s blunt, impatient, and lacks social grace,” said Catherine. “He spies on men and insults women.”
“He outmaneuvers everyone,” I said. “When he first jumped ahead of other generals and was offered command of the army of Italy, disgruntled officers reporting to his tent decided they wouldn’t remove their hats, in order to put this Corsican upstart in his place. So Bonaparte studied them a moment and abruptly removed his own. His subordinates had to do the same, lest they display ridiculous rudeness. He then put his hat back on, point made, and proceeded to tell his generals what to do.”
“But to follow a man who started from nothing?”
“The fact he started from nothing shows how able he is.”
The concept baffled the room. It’s really a minority who want to make their way in the world; most men are content with taking the place their father gives them, bowing to this and being bowed to by that, without having to strive too much or think things through. Everyone knows where he stands when stature comes from birth. Kings meant predictability, while military dictators meant reckless adventure, prying policemen, ceaseless taxes, and military conscription. Or so they told me.
“People hate equality because it means they must be equal, too,” Catherine added with some perception.
“Which is why Napoleon offers the illusion that everyone might rise,” I replied. “You were born into privilege you’ve lost, yes, but most were born into obscurity that Bonaparte offers escape from.”
“Which means they’ll feel failure if they don’t escape.”
“And triumph if they do.”
I wasn’t defending the fellow, exactly, but for a would-be assassin, my views were