#marbot

[gssparta]

[apurpledust]

marbot cat for an art exchange w/ @hellowo66 *v* and of course a cameo from lannes 😏

[maggiec70]

Marbot and the Nice Young Lieutenant

Mariana rode through the lamp-lit streets in a new landau, her coachman and two footmen dressed in deep garnet and gold livery. She expected André’s soirée dansante to provide more than the usual entertainment. How would a houseful of newly elevated former revolutionaries behave now that their master had proclaimed an empire? No more citoyen this, citoyenne that—the return of traditional address was an improvement, and if Napoleon eliminated the revolutionary calendar, all would be well.

André stood in the high-ceilinged hall of his splendid new hôtel particulièr, greeting each guest as footmen circled with trays laden with glasses of wine. He looked magnificent in a midnight blue velvet coat thick with golden acanthus leaves, heavy gold-fringed sash, white velvet knee-breeches, silk stockings, and low-heeled kid shoes. He didn’t seem awkward, but she knew he’d share a cynical comment about his finery when they had a moment alone. Crossing the ornately tiled floor, she smiled up at his dark, handsome face and extended her gloved hand.

The marshal kissed the air above her glove and let her hand go more quickly than usual. “Quite a turnout, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed, Votre Excellence.” Mariana turned to the plump woman standing next to him, beautifully dressed in pale blue silk and dripping with sapphires, yet ill at ease.

“Madame la comtesse di Laudadio, ma chère,” André said without a trace of his usual urbanity, while his wife glared at her, blue eyes colder than her jewels and paler than her gown. Mariana bit back a smile as she realized madame la maréchale believed she was one of her husband’s mistresses.

“Allow me to introduce you to some elegant young officers,” André said, his hand on her elbow. “You should find them interesting.” He led her away from his wife’s basilisk stare and into an enormous, crowded salon where almost all the men were in uniform.

“André, you haven’t invited Jean, have you?”

“He isn’t back from Lisbon. Now, which of these young gentlemen will be fortunate enough to keep you dancing all evening?”

“I’m not a prize to be awarded to one of your brave soldiers, like the Légion d’honneur.”

“Yes, you are,” he replied, with one of his sincere smiles.

He led her toward two officers conversing near a window. When they saw the marshal, they snapped to attention, backs straight, faces flushed. “Madame la comtesse, may I present Lieutenants Charles LaBédoyère and Marcellin Marbot?”

They bent from the waist, gloved hands on the gilded hilts of their swords. If Mariana had been standing closer to them, their thick, shining hair would have grazed her knees.

“Take good care of this lady,” André told them. “She’s my dear friend, so be certain she lacks for nothing.”

Mariana noticed the slightest emphasis on the word friend and appreciated his attempt to make sure they wouldn’t think he was asking them to entertain his mistress. Sometimes André had the manners of a prince of the blood rather than a Mediterranean pirate. And once again, she wondered why things could not have been different between them.

Her two lieutenants looked youthful, almost unfinished. “Have you been in the army long?” What a foolish thing to ask. Both of them were probably older than she was. And both were eager to tell her who they were and the extent of their military experiences.

“I’m a graduate of Saint-Cyr, madame, but my commission is less than a month old.” Lieutenant LaBédoyère had wide-set dark eyes, a lot of soft russet curls, and an earnest expression. He spoke with self-conscious stiffness. “But I’m as new at this as a gold Napoleon.”

“I’ve been around soldiers all my life. My father was a general.” Lieutenant Marbot’s demeanor was more open, like his bold hazel eyes.

“Has he retired?”

“No, madame. He died a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry, lieutenant. I know how difficult it is to lose one’s father.”

“I can’t hear anything in this crowd, and the heat is making my head spin. We should sit in the garden where it’s quiet, and there’s a breeze,” Charles suggested.

Mariana closed her fan, letting it dangle from its cord on her wrist, and walked outside, Marbot’s hand beneath her arm. She was already fond of her two young knights and silently thanked André for engaging them for her.

“Your uniform is impressive,” she said to Marbot, “but how do you bear that high collar and tight coat in this heat?” As soon as she spoke, she remembered once asking Jean the same thing.

He smiled at her in the light spilling from the salon’s large windows. “Practice, madame. A little discomfort is a small price to pay for future glory.”

Lieutenant LaBédoyère joined them on the terrace. “I found these glasses and a bottle of champagne. I didn’t want you to have to wait, madame.”

“Well done, Charles. You might have a career with the commissaires,” Marbot replied. “There’s a nice bench under that tree.”

Mariana settled herself on the bench, the pale cream of her gown glowing in the faint light, the scent of roses and freshly trimmed grass heavy in the still air. LaBédoyère filled their glasses and sat cross-legged on the lawn, the bottle propped against his knee.

“To your good health, comtesse, and our good fortune to know you.” He leaned back on his elbows and looked up at the massive yellow moon rising above the trees. “I wish I could serve on Marshal Masséna’s staff, but not everyone can be an adjutant or aide-de-camp. I’m feeling left out.”

“I could speak to him on your behalf,” Mariana offered.

“Thank you, but it’s better if I earn my position. Marcellin and I are off to the Boulogne camps soon, and I’ll find opportunities there.”

“I’m assigned to Marshal Augereau’s staff. He used to be my father’s subordinate during the Revolution,” Marbot said.

“What was he like?” Mariana asked, remembering the story André had told her about Augereau’s financial generosity toward Jean.

“Enormous, like a bear. He’d roar, too, especially when the volunteers couldn’t tell one foot from another. I was afraid of him, but I was only eight.” He paused to finish his wine and dropped the empty glass on the lawn. “In those days, a young lieutenant with an amazing vocabulary was my best friend.”

“Was he well-educated?” Mariana tried to picture a scholar amidst the rough, revolutionary camps.

“He cursed more fluently than anyone I’ve ever known. I learned words my father would’ve flayed me for saying if I’d been foolish enough to repeat them. My lieutenant was honest and forthright and always kind to me.” He sat up and retrieved his glass. “Is there more?”

“A little.” LaBédoyère emptied the bottle. “I know my way to the kitchens.” He scrambled to his feet, brushing the grass clippings from his breeches, and hurried toward the house.

The hum of voices and slightly louder beat of the music spilled into the garden. Mariana heard the faint chirping of crickets in the grass near her and wasn’t surprised they’d abandoned the lawn closest to the noisy soirée.

“Please, continue your story,” she said.

Marbot leaned against the bench, careful to slide his saber out of the way. “My father always invited the officers to dine with him, but I wasn’t allowed to stay up so late. My lieutenant would sneak into my room afterward, pockets filled with marzipan, and tell me amazing stories of musketeers and duels while I stuffed myself. He let me play with his pistols and showed me how to swing a saber properly, or as well as someone my age could manage. As busy as he was or as tired from endless drilling and training, he always had time for me. I adored him.”

“What was his name?”

“I never called him anything but Jean. But if you met him today, we’d both have to call him monsieur le maréchal Lannes.”

LaBédoyère returned with a bottle of champagne in each hand. “The marshal inquired whether we were entertaining the countess. He made me take both bottles, to be sure.”

As they chattered on, Mariana loosened her tight grip on the delicate fan. Marbot’s story would have brought tears to her eyes even if she hadn’t known the officer he idolized. But she did know him, Santa Vergine, she did.

“When I knew the marshal, he always cared more about being one of the men rather than a stuffy officer,” Marbot continued as if there had not been a break in the conversation. “I’ll bet whatever you want to risk that he never thought he'd actually receive such a promotion, rather like D’Artagnan's attempts to become a king’s musketeer.”

“We should go in, or Marshal Masséna might think we aren’t enjoying his hospitality.” Mariana rose from the bench. The quiet, peaceful garden was no longer a refuge. She needed lights, crowds, and gay music to blot out the feelings Marbot’s recollections had awakened.

“We’ll be court-martialed if the marshal sees you without a proper escort.” Marbot linked his arm through hers, LaBédoyère following like a dutiful puppy.

The warmth inside had increased along with the number of guests, and the heat struck her immediately. Before she reached the center of the room, perspiration bloomed across her upper lip and between her breasts. She snapped open her fan and waved it, stirring nothing but warm, humid air.

A tall, slender, gaudily dressed man detached himself from the crowds and bowed before her.

“Madame la comtesse, may I have the pleasure of your company? If these young gentlemen will spare you…?”

His costume bordered on the ridiculous, his manner obsequious. He looked like a ferret, with bright little eyes set close to a beaked nose that almost twitched when he spoke.

“Monsieur Fouché, or should I say monsieur le ministre?” She extended her hand and smiled as the Minister of Police bowed over it. “One dance, and then, like Cendrillon, I really must leave before midnight.”

The single dance became more than half a dozen with different partners until her two lieutenants rescued her. She looked for André to thank him for the evening, but too many people surrounded him. She shrugged off her breach of manners because one of those beside André was his wife. Looking more ill-at-ease than she had at the beginning of the evening, madame la maréchale Masséna was as close to her husband as his skin, her sharp blue eyes still vigilant for any female trespassers on his time or affections.

Shortly after two in the morning, Marbot helped Mariana into her landau. Before she signaled to her drowsy coachman, LaBédoyère asked, “May we call on you one afternoon, comtesse?”

“Any afternoon you like,” she promised and gave him her address before the landau began to negotiate a narrow path between scores of other vehicles clogging the street. As they left the glitter from lampposts and still-audible music for the sleepy streets along the Seine, Mariana leaned her head against the deep cushions, gazed at the silver moon overhead, and sighed in defeat. Why didn’t it matter that she’d done everything possible to forget Jean? He always came back, not diminished, not a faded memory, but larger than life, brighter than ever, and with a firmer grip on her heart. Why couldn’t Lieutenant Marbot have told her Jean was a devil, uncultured, uncouth, and unkind? Instead, she heard about a young man with sweets in his pockets and time to entertain a little boy. It almost broke her heart. Almost, but not entirely. She lifted her head and straightened her spine against the soft cushions. She could not drift through months and years in Paris as she had done in Milan. Already mortally fatigued with being Penelope, weaving her life away, she understood now that her Ulysses wasn’t coming home, not as she had wanted him to do for so long. From tonight forward, she’d be Atalanta, racing ahead in her golden sandals toward some incredible goal, or better yet, Diana, a strong, fiercely determined female, hunting down her prey with a sure eye and steady hand.

[joachimnapoleon]

General Murat had been born in our own neighbourhood, and as he had been a shopboy to a haberdasher at Saint-Céré in the days when my family used to spend the winter there, he often came with goods for my mother. My father, too, had done him several kindnesses, for which he was always grateful. He kissed me and reminded me how he had often carried me when I was a baby.

-The Memoirs of Baron de Marbot (English translation by Arthur J. Butler), Vol I, 1903. Page 27.

[cuirassier]

Officer and private of the Royal regiment of Carabiniers, 1692, France; plate by Alfred de Marbot

[cuirassier]

French infantry officers, 1685, plate by Alfred de Marbot

[cuirassier]

Musketeers of the King’s Household, 1688, France, plate by Alfred de Marbot

[cuirassier]

Colonel of the Cent Suisse ( the Hundred Swiss) in ceremonial costume, King’s Household, France, 1786, plate by Alfred de Marbot