Napoleon Symphony: A Novel in Four Movements Read Free

Austrian bastards.”
    “A lot of them. He’ll have his work cut out.”
    “Well, we’ll see. In the old days we weren’t encouraged to ask questions. But now I’d like to know what all this is about. Wet Dream says we’re going to take them fraternity and equality—a right fucking recommendation we are, all rags and tatters. You can see how that Saliceti looks at it—gold and silver and loot for those Paris bastards. What’s it all about? If a man believes in the Revolution is he just a fucking idiot?”
    “First things first,” La Harpe said. “The Austrians will have things back as they were if we don’t shoot the balls off them. In Turin where the king goes to sleep all the time—”
    “Old Dormouse.”
    “He woke up just enough to bring back racks and thumbscrews for the unbeliever. Fat priests gobbling fat pork and giggling when they have some poor bitch who ate meat on a Friday lying there with her tits ready to be cut off in nomine domine. Tossing themselves off under their whatyoucalls.”
    “Surplices.”
    “They’ll be back,” Augereau said, “if we don’t watch it. Wet Dream was quick off the mark there. Those two, forgotten their names, who shouted God save the king on parade. Court-martial on the double. Bang bang bang, as you said.”
    “He’s got no cannon here but he’s got some things,” Massena said. “He’s got these big eyes and they’re good on terrain. I should know. We’ll see how it goes and judge later.”
    “He looks bigger with his hat on,” Augereau said. “He doesn’t sit a horse too well. You know, I don’t really like to say this—”
    “Look at that troop there,” Kilmaine said. “There’s not one poor nag that’s not sagging in the middle.”
    “What?”
    “I can’t understand it, really. I lay in bed last night trying to, you know, work it out.”
    “What?”
    “There are times when that little bugger scares the shit out of me.”
    “Ah. Let’s see if he can—” Massena rubbed his beak, grinning sadly. He looked north towards, say, Cairo.
    B uonaparte turned himself into Bonaparte. When they took Milan he could perhaps juggle with that u, conquering French or fraternal Italian as the occasion dictated. As he dictated the occasion. He finished dictating his letter to the Directory and said to Berthier:
    “The days of the minuet are over. These are the days of the waltz. Not, mind you, that I necessarily approve of this frank embracing on the ballroom floor. Still, the speed is too great for lasciviousness.” As Berthier had expected, he took the portrait from his inside pocket and gave it a quiet smiling smack, as to sanctify, by particular application, the beatings of lust. “Speed.” Having restored the portrait to its nest he kept his hand on it. “The application to the art of warfare should be obvious. Let’s have more red pins.”
    Berthier handed him the pins one at a time and watched him pierce the enemy positions. The positions seemed, like pricked thumbs, to start to well blood. Better him than me, Berthier thought. Back in Paris they both want and don’t want victorious generals. If they’re dangerous in the field they’re dangerous back home. And it’s a youngster’s game these days. The old, such as have been kindly allowed to live, can’t be trusted. Doubtful loyalty. Old heads trundled off in market-carts like cabbages. As for me, born into what they used to call the officer class, forty-three and looking it, loyalty not really in question. Fought in a revolutionary war before their Bastille fell, a citation at Philipsburg. Let the bloodletting civilians, if their blood hasn’t been let, stuff that into their revolutionary pipes. But keep me out of the victorious general’s role. Better off as I am. Bonaparte said:
    “As we expected, no reply from the Genoese.”
    “They’ll have told Bbbeaulieu, be sure of that.”
    “Now look here.” He fisted the map. “If Italy’s a leg, then we’re midway between the