natural talent of each man and woman. Yours, it seems, is to perform odd errands in peculiar places.”
“But now I’m retiring,” I said, lest he get the wrong idea. “I had some luck in Tripoli and plan to settle down with my bride Astiza, whom you’ll remember from the Egyptian campaign.”
“Yes, the one helping shoot at me.”
He had a memory as long as a woman’s.
“She’s more agreeable now,” I said.
“Be wary of wives, Gage, and I say that as a man mad about the one I have. There’s no greater misfortune for a man than to be governed by his wife. In such a case he is a perfect nonentity.”
Napoleon’s disdain for women beyond their sexual charms was well known. “We’re partners,” I said, a concept I wasn’t sure he could comprehend.
“Bah. Be careful how much you love her.” He took another bite. “The guilt of many men can be traced to overaffection for their wives.”
“Are you guilty because of your affection for Josephine?”
“She’s as guilty as me, as you know from Paris’s tiresome gossip. But all that trouble is in the past. As rulers, we’re models of rectitude now.”
I knew better than to express my doubt of that claim.
“Our difference is that I regulate my emotions, Gage. You cannot. I’m a man of reason, you of impulse. I like you, but let’s not pretend we’re equal.”
That was obvious enough. “Each time I see you, First Consul, you seem to have done better for yourself.”
“Yes, it surprises even me.” He glanced about. “My ambition doesn’t hurry, it simply keeps pace with circumstances. I feel as if I’m being driven to an unknown goal. All life is a stage set, playing out as the seers promised.”
He’d told me of his visions in the Great Pyramid and prophecy from a legendary gnome called the Little Red Man. “You still believe in destiny?”
“How else to explain where I am? I was laughed at for my Corsican accent in military school. Now we’re putting the finishing touches on the Code Napoleon, which will remake the laws of France. I started too penniless to buy my own uniform, and now I accumulate palaces. And how but destiny to explain an American like you, with more lives than a cat? The policeman Fouche was right not to trust you, because your survival is so inexplicable. And I was right not to trust Fouche. Police invent more lies than they ever discover truth.”
I’d heard that the minister of police who’d arrested me the year before had since been dismissed and become a mere senator, just as Sir Sidney Smith had gone from Near East warlord to the relative obscurity of the British Parliament. I was relieved at both events; lawmakers do great mischief, but seldom do they personally throw you in jail. “Do you wish to get my impressions of the Mediterranean?” I offered.
Bonaparte poured himself a coffee and picked up a pastry, still offering me nothing. “Forget the Mediterranean. Your young nation is keeping the Tripoli pirates occupied with its little war, and I’m drifting toward a big war with the perfidious British. They’ve refused to depart Malta as they promised in the Treaty of Amiens.”
“France hasn’t upheld its obligations, either.”
He ignored this. “The British, Gage, are evil. No man is more peace loving than me, a general who has seen the horror of war. Yet the Lobsters have sent threescore assassins to stalk me, stirred Europe with spies paid by English gold, and scheme to take back all of North America. Our two nations, America and France, must unite against them. I received you in order to talk about Louisiana.”
My impression of that huge territory had been of black flies and bad weather, but I knew Thomas Jefferson was eager to get hold of a property several times bigger than France. American negotiators had hoped to buy New Orleans to assure trading access to the Gulf of Mexico. I’d suggested a bigger bargain. “I hope our two countries can come to agreement on that wilderness,” I agreed. “But I thought you were sending an army to create an empire there.”
“I had an army, until yellow fever took it in Saint-Domingue. As well as my brother-in-law General Charles Leclerc, leaving my poor sister Pauline a widow.” He eyed me as he chewed his pastry. I’m pretty sure he knew I’d tupped his sister when helping with another treaty at Mortefontaine. The tryst had really been the girl’s idea, and it was a romp I paid dearly for, since it forced me into temporary exile on the American frontier. But brothers view such flings through a particular prism; my history with Bonaparte was complicated, and Pauline was one of the complications. I tried not to show my relief that her husband was safely dead.
“What a tragedy,” I said.
“My imbecile sister cut her beautiful hair to show her grief. She hardly liked the man, and certainly wasn’t faithful to him, but appearances are all.” He sighed and picked up a letter. “She also took the first boat back to France. She has the hardheaded practicality of a Bonaparte.”
“Beauty, too.”
“This is a communication from Leclerc last October, just weeks before he died.” He read: “ ‘Here is my opinion on this country. We must destroy all the negroes in the mountains, men and women, and keep only children under twelve years old, destroy half of those on the plain, and not leave in the colony a single man of color who has worn an epaulette. Otherwise, the colony will never be quiet. If you wish to be the master of Saint-Domingue, you must send me twelve thousand men without wasting a single day.’ ” He put the letter down. “What does that sound like to you, Gage?”
“Futility.”
He grimly nodded. “I keep you in my service for your honesty, don’t I? Saint-Domingue is tormented by longing for freedom in a place where freedom can never work. In trying to make all men equal, the blacks have succeeded only in making them equally miserable, and I’m left to put things back as they were. I’ve captured the leading rebel L’Ouverture and locked him up in the mountains, but the Negroes don’t know when to quit. The war is eating whole regiments. I have no twelve thousand troops for Haiti, let alone men to send to Louisiana.”
“Sorry to hear of your difficulty,” I said, even though I wasn’t sorry at all. It wasn’t like the first consul deserved another million square miles. He’d bullied Spain into giving Louisiana back to France a couple years before, but the Spanish flag still flew in New Orleans because Napoleon hadn’t bothered to put anyone there to take possession. He was busy trying to hang on to France’s richest colony, the sugar isle of Saint-Domingue, by reinstating slavery to make its sugar competitive on the world market. As a result, that onetime paradise had become a charnel house. His policy was a complete betrayal of the ideals of the French Revolution, and stupid as well. It baffles me why people believe they can force on others what they’d never tolerate themselves.
Meanwhile, Tom Jefferson was the only one in the world crazy enough to actually want Louisiana. Having not seen the hell that is the American West, he believed it heaven, and mused about sending his secretary Meriwether Lewis to explore it. Promising to persuade Bonaparte to sell the place had won me a good bottle of wine with the president. Jefferson, like Franklin, was genius enough that he’d spent his diplomatic days in France learning to properly eat and drink. He later bought so much wine on credit that he’d assembled the best cellar, and worst debt, in America. The Virginian is also a far better conversationalist than the brusque Bonaparte, and by the time we got to the bottom of our bottle, I’d decided to vote him another term, if I lived to get the chance.
Napoleon had less patience for life’s pleasantries. He waved, and servants materialized to take his silver serving dishes away. Whether it was palace cuisine or infantry biscuits, he ate at lightning speed.
“So your nation, Gage, can benefit from European folly. I need you to go to the American negotiators and convince them that buying all of Louisiana is their idea. It will set the United States as a counterweight to Britain in Canada, and give me money to fight the English in the coming war. If I can’t control Saint-Domingue, Britain shall not control the Mississippi Valley. The United States will block English ambitions for France like a prodigal son.”
That’s not how my nation thought of itself, but I did see a deal could be to everyone’s benefit, including mine. I’d played a small role in ending an undeclared naval war between America and France back in 1800, and now I was go-between again. Napoleon wanted to unload an expanse he’d acquired with a stroke of a pen, before England’s navy took it from him. It appeared I could make everyone happy, except Britain.
“I’ll make my countrymen think in grand terms,” I promised. “Why purchase a mere city, New Orleans, when you could buy an empire?” My stomach growled from hunger. “What do you want for the dustbin, anyway?”
“Fifty million francs. Suggest double that, and they can take pleasure in bargaining me down. When I conquer London and put an end to the British navy, your country and mine will become the greatest trading partners in the
