Napoleon Symphony: A Novel in Four Movements by Anthony Burgess Page B

Yet the scent of your body is in my nostrils as I sit here presiding, half-listening to nonsense that I will shatter in due time with a cannon-burst of sense. For my seed would not work in Egypt and it is as though I must seek the way of achievements and monuments and paragraphs in history tomes to secure the continuation of my name. Do we come now to what is called a mature love, nourished on wounds, as the flying life of Egypt was nourished, in which the death of the mad spring must not be regretted? And yet your scent maddens me now at this two-in-the-morning session, all dust and weariness, with some of the councillors dropping off, as it did when it arose from the maps of Piedmont and Tuscany. And with a start I see that I have written, over and over, in total automatism, God how much I love you on the order paper. It is my innermost heart speaking through my sleeping fingers and the innermost heart speaks tr—
    “Citizens,” he called, “for God’s sake let’s try to earn our salaries. It’s only two-thirty-five.” He banged his fist on the small table set on the consular platform. Old heads started awake around the green-baized horseshoe table below. Cambacérès, Second Consul, could doze with his eyes open, a great gift, but now he began to murmur something about truffles. Lebrun, Third and eldest, never slept. For an instant the First Consul saw himself in his ridiculous youth, set about by graybeards. He must cultivate humility, the appearance of being willing to learn.
    “—the principles of the Revolution,” Jodelet said. Somebody, a new councillor, stood up, inflating his chest for oratory. The First Consul said:
    “Down, sir, down. No flourishes here. Impressed as we all must be by Councillor Jodelet’s devotion to the principles of the Revolution, must we not admit that, whether there be a God or not, the widespread belief in a God is not a matter to which we may close our eyes—literally or otherwise, citizens?”
    There were loud words, jumbled: clergy corruption superstition monks .
    “I speak as a soldier,” the First Consul cried. “We cannot have the flower of the army wasted in civil war. I refer to the Vendée. Too many martyrs there. I propose pacification. And if mass may be said there, why not elsewhere?” Too loud, too dictatorial. “I would be grateful, we would all be grateful for the considered views of the Council. Councillor Cathelineau?”
    Outside, in the raw morning, Cambacérès and Lebrun went off looking for an early breakfast. Cambacérès knew of a small restaurant where they served an exquisite herb omelette. The bread would be smoking fresh about this time too. There was something to be said for staying up all night.
    “What do you think?” Lebrun said.
    “About lui ? I think he keeps a damned bad table. I had him to dinner, you know, and he was actually impatient . An exquisite meal, Jean had exerted himself for the First Consul, and he wanted to know how much longer it was going to go on. A bit mannerless, you know. Said he’d be quite happy with a sausage and a swig of watered Chambertin.”
    “Stripped down to function.” Pleased with the phrase, Lebrun tried it again. Pleased with the phrase, he said, “It may be a new kind of man. He’s very young, of course, may change, become more human.”
    “Yes, something in that. He’s not really human. Intellect and animality. A machine on top of an animal. He has a chest like an orangutan, have you seen him breathe in? Of course you have. He dances up and down like a monkey when he’s in a rage. He should control those rages. Swives like a rattlesnake, so they tell me. Animal all right, and the brain isn’t human.”
    They stood by the raw morning river a moment, seeing barges bringing dewy vegetables from the country. “Nice little turnips there. I like them cooked very slowly, for hours you know, to a kind of cream.”
    “But,” Lebrun said, “where will this new kind of mechanical animal take us? Not