He meets Joseph Bonaparte, the first consul’s older brother, and hopes to develop an avenue bypassing that tower of venom, the foreign minister. But Joseph, though utterly cordial, reveals nothing. Does he even see the first consul? Who knows? Marbois remains a dedicated friend of America, loves to reminisce of their days together in old
New York, but when Mr. Livingston raises the situation here, in Paris, today, Marbois is walking on eggs, skittish as a high-wire man in a gale. It occurs to Mr. Livingston that his old friend has not survived by having a loose tongue or by doing many favors for others.
Weekly he has a new idea for a new memoir, a new approach, a whole new plan that will break the deadlock, and he sits down to compose another letter to Jimmy. And the answers come in, mostly disapproving, denying, forbidding this or that move and demanding that he see the first consul and simply explain to him that he is moving steadily toward a disaster that will destroy him. Mr. Livingston sits at his desk over the garden seething. He seizes paper, writes out his resignation, throws it away, writes an angry rejoinder, wads it and drops it in the basket, sighs, takes another cup of tea, lights a clay pipe, starts afresh. He is doing his best, blocked on every side because—each word fiercely underlined with bold strokes and spatterings of ink—
There never was a government in which less could be done by negotiation than here. There
are
no people, no legislature, no counselors. One man is everything. He seldom asks advice, and never hears it unasked. His ministers are mere clerks
,
and none dares tell him his follies
… .
This was the man, the most dangerous man in the world, with whom Jimmy was locked in combat. Dolley sighed and looked at her husband’s sleeping form. Small, his face peaceful in sleep, the vivid intelligence that glowed from his eyes now masked, he looked like anything but the gladiator who challenged the tyrant of Europe. She shivered at the thought. Still, in eight years of marriage she long since had discovered that her husband was a man with an innate feeling for power, who carried in his slight and often sickly form the instincts of a warrior.
He was just beginning to fight. This thought reassured her and she pinched out the candle, undressed in the dark, and slid under the covers without disturbing him.
The president was in excellent form, Dolley thought, as she watched him massage Ned Thornton. The handsome Briton was all smiles at the attention, which no one in the room could miss.
The oval salon was crowded with guests; she had played no small part in the reception’s planning, and she watched with satisfaction. She had made her role quite satisfactory; it placed her at the heart of things, let her do what she knew she did very well and yet she was careful never to assume too much. But she knew she was greasing the wheels of the new government on a tide of food and drink. No success so far in decorating this house as it deserved, but that would come. Meanwhile, she knew it would hardly function so without her and she was content. Which was not to say that the dream of living here, with all that idea implied, was in the least stilled.
The tall windows were open, the soft air of a rapidly vanishing season seeming the more precious. Most of the guests were men, but here and there she saw the bright flash of a woman’s gown. Jimmy was deep in conversation with Mr. Clark by a window. It appeared they’d had a good session the morning before; she saw Jimmy laugh suddenly and noticed Clark had a knowing smile that made her think of the French novel she was reading. Danny, ravishing in a scarlet gown and surrounded now by a circle of men, had described her uncle’s French mistress, apparently an extraordinary woman who was busily softening his often harsh exterior.
Senator Smith wagged his finger as he explained why no entertainment was complete without Maryland soft shells. She listened with half an ear, watching Mr. Jefferson’s vigorous conversation with Thornton. Louis Pichon bowed to her and nodded to Smith as he seemed to drift aimlessly toward the president.
Mr. Jefferson’s voice rose. “Ned, I understand you have a splendid new filly.”
“She is beautiful, thank you, Mr. President. Virginia’s best, you know, out of Damsel Rose by Charger.”
“You won’t find better lines.” Then, as if struck by inspiration, “I’d like to see her. Why don’t we go riding?”
“A great pleasure, sir.”
“Splendid. Tomorrow at ten?”
“Thank you, sir. I shall be here.”
Pichon’s face fell and he drifted off.
“My,” Smith said, “that was neatly done.”
Dolley smiled. Tom could be smooth as glass when he tried.
“Miz Mobry?”
Clinch Johnson stood in Danny’s office turning his hat in his hands. He was a big, stolid man, slow, quiet, English in appearance, with wisps of pale hair standing from each side of his head, his suit rumpled, stained, and too tight. At the moment he looked like a boy caught with a hand under a girl’s skirt. She felt a thrust of apprehension—
he wants to back out
—that translated almost instantly into cold anger as she realized she scarcely knew more about the man than on the day they’d met. Things were going well, her ships were busy, the Boston distillery welcomed her sugar, she didn’t need more business, she should never have listened—
“What is it, Mr. Johnson?” she snapped.
Her uncle had set it all up—seemed on her side, but there was always that sly quality about him. God! She thought she’d learned her lesson after Carl’s death when the shipping world turned against her—
Mr. Johnson had taken a step back at her tone. His mouth opened and shut. She saw she’d alarmed him, which was not politic, and she forced a small smile. If he intended to back out he’d find her hard to handle, it would be head to head in the courthouse, he’d wish—
Mr. Clark had brought her the deal just before he sailed for France. Presented Johnson as a friend, said he imported wine and had located a new region north of Marseilles producing a vintage that had done well in Savannah and Charleston on a small test shipment. Mr. Clark said he’d
tasted it and was anxious to market it in New Orleans. What they needed now was the right ship equipped for appropriate stowage to make three runs a year, Marcella to Savannah and Charleston to New Orleans.
Mr. Johnson didn’t say a word.
Was she with them so far? Her lips tightened as she nodded. Mr. Clark said there was a schooner nearly completed in Annapolis, right size and speed. Clinch would provide capital for her to buy it, against her note, payable half in two years, half in four, appropriate interest. Two-year haulage contract.
“Really?” She looked at Johnson closely for the first time. “You’d do that?”
“Mr. Clark will endorse the notes.”
She remembered now how she’d laughed, flattered that her uncle would go so far in trust. But in the end, it was she who’d gone far. She’d bought the vessel, ordered it outfitted, she was committed beyond recall—
He was fumbling with an inner pocket. “I brought payment for the vessel—draft on the Bank of the United States. I hope that’s satisfactory.”
She took it, examined it, turned it over. In full. She laughed, feeling a bit the fool; maybe she was on a narrower edge than she’d realized. “Yes—yes, Mr. Johnson, quite satisfactory.” Still, he wasn’t hangdog because he’d brought the money; he wanted something. But she touched his arm. “Sorry,” she said. “Perhaps I’m tense today.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, with a knowing expression. Women troubles, he was thinking. She could have kicked him.”
She asked him to sit and he did, hunched forward on the chair. “Over to where I live,” he said, “the French legation is next door. Mr. Pichon. You know him?”
She nodded. Some new hitch in French export licenses?
“Sometimes I talk over the fence to Mrs. Pichon. She’s a sweet little lady, nigh onto dropping a—” He stopped himself.
What in the world? “She’s very pregnant, Mr. Johnson.”
“Now, that’s exactly it, yes, ma’am, and sick, too, what with the baby and all, and the doctor won’t let her go out.”
She watched him and in a moment he added, “So she’d like you—she asked me—would you come to tea?”
What a strange roundabout invitation! Helpfully, he added, “Seems like she cries most all the time. Does when I see her. Shakes her head when I ask why.”
Danny scarcely knew Pirette Pichon. Language drew them together, she supposed, two Frenchwomen in a sea of English, and they’d chatted at social occasions. Nothing more. Still, this was very odd and something was afoot. And Pirette was likeable, gentle, and even more vulnerable with this difficult pregnancy. Which stirred in Danny that familiar sense of loss; she could expect no children now. Her hand on the draft, she told Mr. Johnson she would visit Mrs. Pichon that afternoon.
“Thank you, ma’am.” He squared his hat and left. She watched him walk down the street. So that was it, a favor to a neighbor. An odd man, indeed. Still, there was a dignity in him and, she thought, strength. He was very successful, and she knew many men prized his opinion. She had no idea if he liked her or not, but they were partners and, her hand on the bank draft, she was content. Odd, yes … but he would do.
Pirette Pichon herself opened the door when Danny twisted the bell at the legation’s family entrance. She looked ready to give birth within the hour, her face white as her blouse, eyes puffy with weeping. She chattered away as she poured tea; and after a bit, Danny said, “Pirette, what’s this all about?”
A convulsive sob shook her slender frame. “Forgive me, I know we’re not close, but you visit Mrs. Madison often, don’t you? You know, you’re French; I’ve always felt I could trust you—” She stopped, peering at Danny, then said, “I
have
to trust you. You see, we’re in terrible trouble. They’re trying to destroy Louis.”
“Who is?”
There was hysteria in her sudden wail. “Oh, I’m so frightened, and the baby’s coming, and I don’t know—”
“Pirette! What are you talking about?”
“General Leclerc. This awful business in Louisiana. He’s trying to blame Louis for everything.”
Slowly, midst sobs and tumbling words, the story emerged: Louis Pichon had perceived immediately that French hopes for Louisiana wouldn’t work, as Danny herself had known in an instinctive flash. Pichon could see that Americans, coupled with Britain, would be an implacable enemy. He understood Americans, their soaring growth, their strength and determination. He’d warned Monsieur Talleyrand to expect unending resistance. Every week Mr. Madison called him in to make points that Louis had been telling Paris all along.
But now General Leclerc in Santo Domingo was sending furious letters telling poor Louis to
order
the Americans to force their merchants to ship supplies—procure ten thousand
livres
of this, ten thousand of that, ship within seven days …
And Louis protesting to Leclerc that there was no ordering Americans and warning that the general was making things worse, his ugly threats, ridiculing American democracy, threatening rough force in Louisiana, jailing ship captains for their language or the name given a ship. He told Leclerc the United States was a nation founded in law, not whims. Just now he’d written Leclerc ordering him to send no more of the likes of some general, who seemed to have made an ass of himself.
Yes, Danny thought, that would irk the general, all right.
Now, said Pirette, balled handkerchief clutched to her cheek, the monster is demanding Louis’s recall. Brands him a thief, liar, says he takes bribes, is beholden to Americans, in love with them, forgets he’s French, is unfit to serve, sends insulting letters to generals—and, of course, nothing infuriates the first consul more than criticism of soldiers.
Staring at Danny, she whispered, “You know, General Leclerc is his favorite. He’s young, handsome, elegant, dashing; he won great victories. No wonder Bonaparte’s sister is mad for him, and Louis says she can wheedle anything
out of her brother. If we’re recalled … the first consul already furious, Leclerc certain to hound Louis from any post they give him, what will we do? And the baby’s coming and I’m ill, and the doctor says the baby will be delicate, a sea voyage might kill him. And the way things are in France just now, why, they could drag Louis to Dr. Guillotin’s dreadful machine … .”
What could Danny say? She thought Pirette’s fears well justified. Unlimited power leads to unlimited evil.
“Louis must never know of this, but please, please, tell Mrs. Madison that Louis is a friend. See if she won’t speak to her husband; see if they won’t let us stay here if we must. Grant us asylum. Louis would be furious, but now there are three of us, I have to think of my baby. Don’t you think I’m right? Tell me you’ll speak to Mrs. Madison, please … .”
Dolley called Jimmy in. “Of course,” he said, after listening to Danny, “we’ll protect him.”
Dolley thought this was exceedingly good news and said so after Danny left.
Jimmy had the expression of a man who hopes but knows better than to assume. “Yes … it’s a relief that he does understand. But it appears he fears losing his head for saying it.”
“Or his wife does.”
“Same thing, I expect.”