The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B.

by Sandra Gulland

  After dessert, in the game room playing billiards, Monsieur de Beauharnais and his brother played billiards while “discussing” politics (it was more of an argument).

  “Oh politics, always politics,” Mademoiselle de la Chevalerie whispered to me. “At the lodge we only talk of lofty things.”

  I was tempted to advise Monsieur de Beauharnais on a more likely angle for a shot he was setting up, but held my tongue. He shot and missed, leaving the way clear for his brother to sink four running.

  Someone began to play the harpsichord in the front parlour. “Your fiancé may not be good at billiards,” Mademoiselle de la Chevalerie whispered as we left the game room, “but he is so very charming. He is the favourite with all the ladies.”

  In the parlour Aunt Désirée was playing the harpsichord as a woman sang. I was introduced to several people who had newly arrived. Soon Monsieur de Beauharnais and his brother joined us and the gathering became gay. At Monsieur de Beauharnais’s insistence there was dancing, first a polonaise, which is a bit of a walk, and then contredanses, which are more involved.

  “Alexandre is the best dancer in all of Paris,” one of the younger cousins said to me. A plain girl, she was strikingly attired in a lavender silk brocade dress with huge flounces and a bustle. Her braided shoes had little gold buckles on them that looked like flowers.

  “Even the Queen has taken notice,” Mademoiselle de la Chevalerie whispered.

  “The Queen?” I accepted another glass of champagne which a servant brought around. The three of us were sitting close to the musicians and it was a little difficult to hear.

  Mademoiselle de la Chevalerie giggled behind her gold-painted fan. “But then the Queen fancies any number of men.”

  I was feeling a little light-headed and refrained from responding. I turned to watch Monsieur de Beauharnais move through the intricate forms. He did move elegantly. I could understand why everyone so admired him.

  After the piece, which went on for over twenty minutes, Monsieur de Beauharnais invited me to be his partner for a polonaise. I declined. I love dancing, but these forms were entirely new to me. I feared I would embarrass him.

  Nevertheless, it was an enjoyable evening. Even the Marquis seemed spry—I saw him dancing hatless.*

  On the return, in the carriage (I had to sit on a low stool between the seats because my headdress was so high), Aunt Désirée informed Monsieur de Beauharnais that she had decided that the wedding would take place at her country home in Noisy-le-Grand and that she intended to arrange a special dispensation from the archbishop of Paris so that the banns wouldn’t have to be read three times. “This way, you and Rose will be able to get married before Christmas.”

  “Excellent,” Monsieur de Beauharnais said. “I shall talk to my accountant tomorrow.”

  Before Christmas? So soon …

  * The once-prosperous neighbourhood was now quite poor, situated close to the entrance of the “cour des miracles”-a haven for beggars and thieves made famous in Victor Hugo’s Hunchback of Notre-Dame, written in 1831.

  * Breeches were difficult to run in so footmen wore skirts. They also wore bright colours so that they could be more easily seen in the dark.

  * Jean-Jacques Bacon de la Chevalerie (1731-1821) was a celebrated Freemason. In 1773 he’d been Grand Orateur of the Grand Orient of France.

  * Men who intended to dance wore a hat to a soirée. However, it was considered inappropriate for an elderly man to dance, much less to declare his intention to do so. It was acceptable, however, for an elderly man to be spontaneously recruited-to dance hatless.

  In which I am married & learn the facts life

  December 14, 1779—Noisy-le-Grand.

  At nine the morning of my wedding I began my toilette. I allowed four hours in order to indulge in a number of rituals: a wash with water perfumed with jasmine (which made me homesick), a massage (which made me ache) and a facial mask of cucumber and vinegar (which made my skin blotchy). So right from the start my wedding day was not as I had planned.

  After being bled (not too much—just enough to give me a pale complexion), my make-up applied, it took almost an hour—and my headdress freshly powered, Mimi and Aunt Désirée helped tie me into a stiff, boned corset to which the paniers were fastened. I kept bumping into the furniture. Over this came the dress: a white satin gown with a train, embroidered and trimmed with lace. This was fixed to the stomacher, an embroidered panel that goes down the front. It wasn’t easy, for the gown was tight. I viewed myself in the looking glass. I looked beautiful, but not radiant. It was torture being inside this construction.

  Last, I slipped on my new shoes laced with silver. I stood in front of the looking-glass.

  “You look like a bride!” Mimi said. She gave a squeal.

  “You sounded like Da Gertrude just then,” I said, turning to see my profile. Tears came to my eyes. How I longed for Mother and Manette—and even Grandmother Sannois! If only they could see me now.

  “Don’t cry! You’ll spoil your rouge,” Aunt Désirée exclaimed.

  Aunt Désirée and I went down to await the guests. I sat by the window. My veil was secured to my towering headdress by a pearl-studded cap which kept slipping.

  First Abbé Tascher arrived, to stand in for Father, who was too ill to come to Noisy-le-Grand with us. Then, shortly after, Monsieur de Beauharnais’s cousin Comte Claude, who brought word that François would not be able to attend as Marie was indisposed. Of course then we were all of us concerned that her time of confinement had begun, but we were assured that that was not the case. Three men in uniform arrived, colleagues from Monsieur de Beauharnais’s regiment. They apologized that one of their number was unable to attend as he was suffering from an indisposition going around Versailles. Monsieur Patricol, who had been Monsieur de Beauharnais’s tutor when he was a child, arrived a bit late and somewhat flustered, saying he’d had trouble with the wheel of his carriage. But he didn’t put it that way. He said, “There has been an apparent altercation with the drive mechanism.” I was struck by his eyes, which are protruding, and his ponderous forehead.

  Finally Monsieur de Beauharnais came downstairs to join us. He looked elegant in a black silk coat, gold embroidered waistcoat and a lace cravat. I felt proud sitting beside him.

  Aunt Désirée ordered refreshments. I sipped from a glass of champagne, now and again sighing from nerves, fearful that I might faint from the lack of air my corset was causing me.

  We set out for the chapel. Some children cried out, “Long live the bride and bridegroom!” The church was small and quite cold. We were received and Monsieur de Beauharnais and I said our vows. (It took longer to dress than to marry.) As we were leaving the priest almost tripped on his robes thanking Aunt Désirée for the gift of two copper candelabras and six hundred livres, which he assured her would be used in its entirety to make up a dowry for some unfortunate girl of his parish.

  Back at the cottage, the toasts began. Aunt Désirée touched her glass to mine. “To the vicomtesse.”

  I felt light-headed and had to lie down. I was still a little weak when I rejoined the guests. The men were teasing Monsieur de Beauharnais about the night that lay ahead.

  It was almost midnight when the last guest departed. On Aunt Désirée’s instruction Mimi accompanied me to Monsieur de Beauharnais’s room. A fire had been laid, but even so it was chilly. In the dressing room, Mimi helped me out of my gown and into a new lace-trimmed chemise, which was lovely, although scratchy. “You look like an angel,” she said. Mimi tucked my greased and powdered headdress under a boned calash. She began humming: Calypso, you are a woman just like me.…

  “How does that song go?” It was familiar.

  Mimi sang, “I caressed Sonson, fondled Sonson, I even went so far I nibbled Sonson!”

  A dizzy feeling came over me. I grabbed hold of a wig stand.

  “Are you all right?” Mimi asked.

  “Yes.” Although I wasn’t sure. I heard footsteps in the bedchamb
er, heard the door close, the bed boards creak. The light in the bedchamber suddenly went out.

  “Ooooh!” Mimi hurriedly dabbed jasmine fragrance on my neck, bosom and behind my ears. Then she pushed me through the dressing-room curtains.

  I was comforted by the darkness. “I am here,” I heard Monsieur de Beauharnais say. I heard someone coughing downstairs.

  I felt my way to the side of the bed. His hand reached out for me. “You startled me!” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, pulling back the covers. “I should have left a candle burning.”

  I slipped under the covers, felt the warming pan at the foot of the bed. I was trying to think what to say. Was I supposed to say something? I was suddenly aware of the dull, constant ache of my bad tooth. Would I have to have it pulled? Did I have worms in my teeth, like Mimi said? Should I let Monsieur de Beauharnais kiss me if I did?

  “What are you thinking?” Monsieur de Beauharnais asked. He turned onto his side, facing me. My eyes were growing accustomed to the dark. I could make out the outline of his head, his shoulder. He wasn’t wearing a nightcap.

  “Nothing.” I’d been thinking that in the morning I should rinse my mouth with urine to stop the ache. The thought made me ill, but if doingso would save the tooth—“What are you thinking?” I asked.

  “I’m thinking what a strange situation this is. We hardly know one another.” His words slurred a little.

  I made a little laugh.

  “Perhaps you would prefer to wait,” he said.

  “Yes.” Was that what he wanted me to say? I wondered.

  The room suddenly became brighter. The moon had come out from behind a cloud. I could see his eyes. His lips were thin, a little disdaining, his nose prominent, giving him an aristocratic profile. My husband, the man for whom God intended me. I had only met him six weeks before, and now I was his wife.

  “Perhaps if I just kissed you,” he said.

  “Yes.” A pin had come loose in my headdress and was poking into my scalp uncomfortably.

  He moved over to my side of the big bed. His head blocked the light from the window. I could no longer see his features. He put his hand on my shoulder. His breath smelled of brandy and cigars. His lips touched mine, and then he pulled away. Was that it? I wondered. Did I do something wrong?

  “I forgot something,” he said.

  He reached back and opened the cabinet beside the bed. “Aunt Désirée doesn’t want the sheets stained,” he said, handing me a cloth.

  What was I supposed to do with it?

  “Put it under your … you know.”

  Under my bottom?

  He lay down beside me. I felt him fumbling with my bed jacket. “Do you mind?” he asked.

  “Do you want me to take it off?” I didn’t want to take it off.

  He kissed my nose. I wondered, did he miss my mouth? His hand slipped into the bodice of my night-dress. His lips covered my mouth. Then he slipped his hand under my night-dress, found the place between my legs. I cried out, surprised. His fingers were cold. He kissed me hard. He pushed my night-dress up around my waist, got on top of me. His manhood felt warm against my skin. He poked it here and there. I lay still. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. Then I felt a sharp pain. I cried out and tried to pull away, but he held me. And then he was inside me.

  He kissed my wet cheeks. He was moaning and moving around. I wondered how long it would go on. I tried not to cry, but it hurt! Then he clasped me to him hard, his feet kicking, and collapsed on top of me, groaning.

  Had he had an attack? Was he dead? “Are you all right?” I whispered. What had happened? He rolled over beside me, grunting.

  Soon he was snoring. The image of William’s face came to me, his smile. You would make a lovely queen, he had told me.

  Tears trickled down the side of my face onto the pillow. Was I a woman now?

  January 1, 1780, New Year’s Day—Paris.

  I have resolved to go to mass every morning. I want to become a good wife. I have asked for divine help in this, for so often a pained expression covers Monsieur de Beauharnais’s brow.

  “What is it I do?” I asked Aunt Désirée. “What is the reason?”

  “Reason,” she said, correcting my pronunciation. “You continue to drop your r’s, Rose.”

  Aunt Désirée wrote out a list of words. I am to practise them, recite them to her every evening. I try to accept her correction without temper, for I know that it is in this that I must strive—to obey without question, to become Madame la vicomtesse, a most excellent wife.

  January 13.

  Monsieur de Beauharnais practises dance steps all the day long, watching himself in the big looking glass. He has been invited to the Queen’s ball at Versailles … but I have not.

  “Why?” I asked Father and Aunt Désirée. “Why might I not go?”

  “You haven’t been presented at Court, Rose,” Father said.

  “Neither has Alexandre.”*

  “But Alexandre is the best dancer in all of Paris,” Aunt Désirée said. “This is quite an honour, Rose. You should rejoice on your husband’s behalf.”

  Sunday, January 23.

  Monsieur de Beauharnais has returned from Versailles. He danced with the Queen!

  Aunt Désirée looked like she might faint. “Alexandre, tell us the truth. You didn’t dance with the Queen.”

  It was true, he had, for one-quarter turn of a polonaise, he said.

  “Did she touch your glove?” Aunt Désirée asked. “This one?”

  “Behold, Madame, I give you my blessing.” Monsieur de Beauharnais made an elegant sweep through the air and touched his hand to her shoulder.

  We gathered in the front parlour to listen to his account. Even Father came downstairs to join us, interrupting Monsieur de Beauharnais to fill us in on details of proper royal deportment.

  Monsieur de Beauharnais said the Queen is graceful—although she doesn’t dance too much now, now that she is a mother, allowing herself only a few quadrilles or a colonne anglaise or two in an evening. When the King joins her he has to dance without turning his back to her, which gets him hopelessly mixed up and behind the music.

  Monsieur de Beauharnais said the Queen is an accomplished hostess, keeping the young men from staying in the corners all night talking of horses and duelling.

  Oh, there was so much that he told us, it is hard to remember it all: the Swiss Guards in starched ruffs, their spaniels on leashes; a door of glass so clear people almost walked through it; a room of maids to attend to dresses in need of repair; the firemen standing ready with buckets of water and large sponges.…

  All this evening I have been in a reverie. I imagine myself strolling, cooling myself with a fan of mother-of-pearl. Men in black velvet dance around me, their long plumes bobbing. I imagine the music, the women in court hoops twirling, the swish of silk on silk.…

  It is dawn. I have danced all night. Around the walls of the gilded room are the slumped bodies of the sleeping pages, the maids, the exhausted dancers. But still, I dance….

  Tuesday, February 29.

  Oh, sorrow beyond measure. One week ago Alexandre’s sister-in-law, Marie, gave birth to a girl. Aunt Désirée and I have been going to mass every morning, praying for the health of this infant, but in spite of our efforts, she died this morning, at seven days. This is the second infant Marie has lost.

  Friday, June 23, Saint John’s Day.

  I am seventeen today. Monsieur de Beauharnais presented me with a ruby. Then he informed me that he must return to his regiment. “How long will you be gone?” I asked.

  “Six months.”

  Six months!

  July 18, 3:00 P.M.

  Monsieur de Beauharnais is gone. He left a list of readings for me to complete: Agesilaus, Brutus, Aristides. I fall asleep reading.

  July 25, 1780—Brest

  Dear Rose,

  I am glad you have been attending to your studies but disheartened that your efforts are not better
reflected in your written expression. Are you sitting at the writing desk properly, as I showed you? Are you holding your quill correctly, bending your arm at the right angle?

  As for content, I suggest you ask Aunt Désirée if she has a book of letters you might copy. In this way you might learn correct expression.

  My heart is filled with longing for the one whom I hold most dear. In rapture, I fall asleep each night, pressing your image to my lips. Oh, that it were you! How cruel Time, who keeps us apart. Write, Rose. Do not neglect your studies.

  Your husband, Alexandre de Beauharnais, vicomte

  August 2.

  I stood in front of the looking glass this morning, examining my belly, turning to the right and the left, trying to see if there has been any change. I should have started the flowers two weeks ago.…

  Thursday, August 31.

  This morning when I woke, feeling sick in the way I do so often now, I decided it was time to talk to Aunt Désirée. After the midday meal I asked her if we could talk. She invited me into her apartment. I sat down on the settee with some sense of formality. I told her I’d come to ask her advice.

  She looked at me with a cautious but satisfied look. “Yes?”

  “How would I know if I were with child?”

  I thought for a moment Aunt Désirée had stopped breathing, for the rise and fall of her chest is usually remarkable. She squared her shoulders and said, “Very well,” and proceeded to ask me questions. When I told her I hadn’t had flowers for over two months, she stood up and put me directly to bed, where she’s been feeding me hot chicken broth and wine ever since.

  The doctor comes every morning, to see Father. Hopefully he will release me from this prison.

  September 1.

  The doctor prescribed ten drops of tincture of iron in the morning, meat two times a day, and a pint of beer or a glass of port with supper. I can get out of bed, but for two months I’m not to ride in a carriage.