The Generals

When they reached the carriage Napoleon and Josephine looked inside and saw Eugène cradling his sister in his arms. There was a livid streak of blood down the silk material of her dress and she looked up with a dazed expression at her mother and stepfather.

‘Oh, God.’ Josephine’s voice caught in a choke before she continued, ‘She’s hurt. Out of my way!’ She hauled herself into the carriage and pushed Eugène to one side as her hands traced the flow of blood up to the torn flesh of the girl’s wrist. A jet of blood arced into the carriage and splashed on Josephine’s cheek.

‘Get some pressure on the wound!’ Napoleon snapped as he squeezed in beside his wife. ‘Eugène. Find a doctor. At once.’

‘Where?’

‘Just do it!’

Eugène stumbled away and Napoleon hurriedly unwound the fine scarf from round his neck and began to tie it round the injury, as tightly as he could. Hortense gasped at the pain and Josephine glanced furiously at her husband.

‘I have to stop the flow of blood,’ he explained gently. ‘It’s her only chance.’

But even as he spoke the blood continued to well up through the material.

‘Mama, I’m cold.’ Hortense’s eyes fluttered. ‘So cold.’

Her body began trembling violently and Josephine grasped her chin. ‘Oh, God, please, no. Not Hortense. Please God.’ She shook her daughter. ‘Hortense . . .’

The girl moaned faintly in her throat and her whole body was shaking.

Josephine glanced up. ‘She needs help.’

‘Eugène is finding someone.’

‘Mother . . .’ Hortense’s voice was little more than a murmur. ‘I’m cold. Hold me.’

Josephine drew her daughter in close to her, nuzzling her soft hair as she stroked Hortense’s cheek. ‘My baby . . . My baby.’The first tears glistened in Josephine’s eyes, and rolled down her cheeks, smearing her make-up. Napoleon tied off the dressing and held the girl’s cold hand. Josephine was rocking her daughter gently in her arms, as if the girl was an infant. She continued to whisper endearments and comforting noises until Eugène returned.

‘I’ve cleared a path for your carriage, and sent word for a doctor to go to the palace at once.’

‘Good boy.’ Napoleon patted his stepson on the arm.‘Now we must get your mother and sister away from here.’ Napoleon eased Josephine away from her daughter, who had passed out. Slipping his hands under the girl’s shoulders, Napoleon turned to Eugène. ‘Here. Give me a hand.’

The study was lit by the fire alone, and Napoleon sat in a chair staring into the flames as the wood hissed and crackled. He was still smeared with smoke and black smudges, and his formal coat was unbuttoned and hung open. He held a large glass of brandy in his hands. As he gazed into the wavering orange glare at the heart of the fire he saw the explosion, and its terrible aftermath, playing out in his mind, almost as if it was happening again.

After he had helped carry Hortense back to his carriage and settled Josephine in beside her with her son, Napoleon ordered his driver to return to the Luxembourg Palace at once. Then he turned back to the scene of the attack and helped the men of the Consular Guard to pick through the wreckage looking for any more survivors. It was as bad as any battlefield Napoleon had ever seen; so many of the casualties were women and children. Those closest to the explosion had been blasted to pieces. Fouché had rushed to the site, anxiously searching for his master, and his expression was a picture of relief as he seized Napoleon by the arm.

‘Thank God! There are already rumours that you had been killed.’

Napoleon glanced round the devastated street. ‘I was lucky.’

‘No.’ Fouché shook his head. ‘France was lucky. We have to move fast, to quash the rumours. The people have to know that you are unharmed, before anyone tries to take advantage of the situation. Come, sir.’ He gently pulled Napoleon towards the end of the street.

‘Where are we going?’ Napoleon muttered.

‘To the Opéra.’

Napoleon stopped dead, and pulled himself free of Fouché’s grasp. ‘The Opéra? After what’s happened? Are you mad?’

‘We have to show your face in public, sir,’ Fouché insisted. ‘The Opéra is as good a place as any. And it’s nearby. Come on, sir. There’s no time to waste.’

They collected some of the Consular Guards as they went and by the time they reached the steps leading up to the main entrance an anxious crowd had spilled out from their seats to try to find out more details of the explosion. The Guards cleared a path through the crowd and Napoleon mounted the steps and turned at the top. At once there was a sound, as if the whole crowd shared a sigh of relief, and then excited muttering broke out before a lone voice cried. ‘ Vive Napoleon!’

The cry was quickly taken up and echoed off the tall façade of the Opéra. Napoleon raised his hand and waved to the crowd in response to their open affection and relief that he had been unharmed. The cheering continued, minute after minute, until Fouché touched his shoulder and spoke loudly into his ear. ‘I have commandeered a carriage for you, just round the corner. You’ll be taken back to the palace and your wife.’

Napoleon nodded mutely, then lowered his arm and followed Fouché down the steps and along the front of the Opéra to the corner. The carriage was just past the turning and guarded by several of Fouché’s mounted policemen.

‘You can trust them,’ Fouché said, noticing Napoleon’s expression. ‘You’ll be safe with my men.’

He helped Napoleon up into the cab.‘I’ll join you once I have given the orders to begin a hunt for the people behind the attack.’

Napoleon nodded and shut the door. At once the carriage lurched into motion and rattled over the cobbled street as the mounted policemen cleared a path through the crowd, warily looking about them for any sign of further danger to the First Consul.

At his private apartments, Napoleon went immediately to find his wife. She was in her private sitting room, with her son, her physician and some of her closest friends. Her face was streaked with tears as she watched the doctor tend to Hortense’s wound. Napoleon stared at them for a moment, before the doctor noticed him and called out softly, ‘She will be fine, sir. She’s lost a lot of blood, but she is a strong girl.’

Napoleon nodded his gratitude and then quietly slipped away to his study. He felt guilty. The bomb was meant for him, not Josephine’s daughter, and she would not have been injured if he had not become the First Consul, or if he had not decided to arrange the trip to the Opéra. Reaching his study, he ordered a servant to light the fire, and then he poured himself a drink and sat down to wait for Fouché.

Shortly after midnight, the door to the study clicked open and Napoleon glanced up as the Minister of the Interior entered the room. He nodded towards a chair on the other side of the fire and Fouché sat down.

Napoleon cleared his throat. ‘What was the butcher’s bill?’

‘Over fifty casualties so far, half of them dead.’ Fouché paused a moment before he changed the subject. ‘But you’re alive and unhurt, and that’s the main thing. I’ve primed the newpaper editors with the story I want to run tomorrow. I’ve told them it’s the work of royalist and Jacobin agents.’

Napoleon sniffed faintly. ‘An unlikely combination.’

‘Maybe, but this outrage may provide the excuse we need to crack down on both parties. I’ve given orders to start rounding up all those we suspect of being their ringleaders. Someone will know something about the plot. It’s just a matter of asking the questions in the appropriate ma

‘You’re talking about torture.’

‘Torture? Not the word to use, I think.We’ll call it something like coercive interrogation, to help keep the newspapers on our side.We might possibly discover who was behind the plot, but we are sure to uncover a great many pieces of useful information while we are at it.’ His eyes glinted at the prospect, before he assumed a more sombre expression and leaned forward towards the First Consul. ‘I heard the news about your stepdaughter a short while ago. I am told she will recover. That must be a comfort to know.’