The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B.

by Sandra Gulland

  I have asked Aunt Désirée to obtain etchings of inspiring moments in Roman and Greek history to position beside your bed. In this way, by casting your eyes upon these heroic images, you will guarantee a good result. I forbid you to hire a wet-nurse as the milk will influence the character of the baby. If mothers nursed their own babies, many of the ills of society would be eliminated.

  I embrace you, ma tendre amie.

  Your husband, Alexandre de Beauharnais, vicomte Note—I suggest for this period of waiting you absent yourself from the company of Aunt Fanny.

  March 7.

  Fanny came by around eleven for tea. As she was going she put a small parcel in my hand. “Don’t tell Désirée,” she whispered. “And certainly not your father.”

  I’ve just now opened it. It’s Rousseau’s Confessions, which have been banned. I started reading it and was immediately shocked. I’ve hidden it under my mattress.

  March 15.

  Fanny came by before dinner. I didn’t think I’d get a chance to ask her about something in Confessions, but finally Aunt Désirée went out to see how the cook was managing with the rabbits Fanny had brought and I got up the courage. “You want me to explain?” she demanded.

  I realized from the look on her face that I shouldn’t have asked.

  “You know how certain things can … arouse a man?” she asked.

  Now it was my turn to blush.

  “Well—for Rousseau, he fancied a bit of a spanking.”

  I was shocked. “You mean …?”

  “For a man like that, carry a birch rod and make him beg, I say.” She sat back on the sofa with a maternal air. “Perhaps that’s what your Alexandre needs,” she mused.

  When Aunt Désirée returned I was in such a state of giddiness she grew alarmed on my behalf. After Fanny left and I was alone again I got out the book, searching for the passages that had previously eluded my understanding. In this naughty way I am pleasantly passing the Lord’s day.

  Sunday, March 25.

  Yesterday, the eve of Lady Day, I felt my child flutter in my belly like a butterfly. I grew still. It did it again, fluttering—oh, so faintly!

  Mimi cast my cards. I will have a boy, she said.

  A boy! I think of all the things a boy must do, all the things a mother must let him do, and I want to cry. Is this what being a mother means, this bewildering sentiment flooding one’s heart?

  Sunday, April 15.

  In church we learned that the Queen is expecting another child. There was much rejoicing. I felt the festivities as if they were for me, for I know what she feels, I know her joy.

  April 18.

  Monsieur de Beauharnais complains I haven’t written, yet when I do my letters are corrected and returned. Now he suggests I send all my letters to him—even those I write to Mother and Manette—so that I might be instructed on correct spelling and construction. I cannot write at all, now, I am so distressed.

  Later.

  Father has suggested that Aunt Désirée help me with my letters to Monsieur de Beauharnais—she will write them out for me, to ensure that no errors are made.

  April 30.

  Monsieur de Beauharnais has accused Aunt Désirée of writing my letters for me. He is furious!

  May 4—Noisy-le-Grand.

  I received a letter from Monsieur de Beauharnais this afternoon, posted from La Roche-Guyon, the country estate of his patron, the Duc de la Rochefoucauld.

  “But Monsieur de Beauharnais is in Verdun,” I told Aunt Désirée. Surely Monsieur de Beauharnais would not have travelled to La Roche-Guyon without coming to see us—to see me. It was but a short detour along the route.

  “No doubt Alexandre was under orders,” Aunt Désirée said, but I saw doubt in her eyes.

  “Under orders to live as he pleases without any regard for his pregnant wife,” I said angrily. Without any love for his wife.

  “You must try harder, Rose,” Aunt Désirée said. “It is a wife’s duty to please.”

  “Monsieur de Beauharnais is impossible to please!” I went to the window. Even the country vista did not soothe me. “Laughing one minute, morose the next, serious and then frivolous, feverish and then cold—one never knows how it will be with him!”

  Aunt Désirée sighed, putting down her lacework. “We need help,” she said.

  Thursday, June 7.

  Aunt Désirée sent Patricol, Alexandre’s childhood tutor, to La Roche-Guyon to talk with him. Now Patricol has written Aunt Désirée suggesting a solution to “our” problem: that others get involved in my schooling. So now Aunt Désirée is hiring tutors for me. Everyone—even Father—is being recruited in this effort to educate me.

  June 23.

  I am eighteen today. It is terribly hot, and in my condition I suffer. Nevertheless, I’ve been trying to get through the first volume of Vertot’s Roman History—but then the baby moves within me, inspiring a reverie.

  My letters to Monsieur de Beauharnais report only my studies. I do not tell him of the changes in my heart.

  Monday, September 3—Paris.

  My baby was born this morning—a boy, on the very day of my dear sister Manette’s birth. A good omen.

  It was a hard labour, more painful than I could have imagined, but the love I feel for this little creature, this little sucking thing, overwhelms me, puts all at peace. I clasp my squalling baby to me and sing sweet songs, baptizing him with tears of wonder. I curl under the covers with him, bringing him to my breast. He grabs at my nipple greedily, pulling the watery liquid out of me, and we are silent then together but for his chirps and sucking sounds. We fall into a sweet-smelling sleep, then, my baby and I, and I think, as we drift into dreams, this is Heaven, isn’t it? Is this not what Heaven is?

  Later.

  “Rose, there is someone here to see you,” Aunt Désirée said. Something in her voice warned me.

  Behind her I saw Monsieur de Beauharnais. I caught my breath. I hadn’t seen him for—how many months? Eight? I’d lost count. He looked exceedingly well, dressed in an elegant black coat, a red-striped waistcoat and flesh-coloured breeches. The toes of his glistening black boots were pointed.

  He smiled and tipped his top hat. “My apologies. I intended to be here for the event, but—”

  “No need to apologize, Alexandre. I wasn’t expecting you,” I said.

  “I recall that when you address me by my Christian name, it means that you are angry.”

  “I am too tired to be angry.” I felt pressure in my breasts. Soon it would be time to nurse.

  “I have a gift for you.” He pulled a jeweller’s case out of his vest pocket. Inside was a gold pin with a tiny image of himself painted on it.

  Mimi came into the room, my baby bundled in her arms. She startled when she saw Monsieur de Beauharnais.

  “Alexandre, you remember—”

  “Rose, of course I …” He faltered.

  “Mimi,” I said, reminding him.

  But his eyes were on the baby. “And this is—?”

  Mimi gently put the baby into Monsieur de Beauharnais’s outstretched arms. He lifted the corner of the coverlet, looked upon the face of his son. Then he looked over at me, his eyes filled with tears. “Have you named him?” he asked, his voice full of emotion.

  “The honour is yours.”

  “I would like him to be Eugène,” he said.

  “I like that name,” I said. The baby began to fuss. “He’s hungry.”

  Monsieur de Beauharnais put our son into my arms. “Welcome home, Alexandre.” I touched his hand.

  Friday, September 7, 3:00 P.M.

  Monsieur de Beauharnais is attentive. He goes on in a rapture about new life. He has studied the newest theories and is intent on doing everything properly. He talks of Rousseau, of nursing, of a child’s “development”—he talks of all the wrong a mother might do. He’s in a fit of worry.

  I want to take his head and place it on my heart. I want to say, do not be afraid. I want to stroke his fine, long h
air and mother him—Monsieur de Beauharnais, my husband, the motherless one.

  Monday, October 22.

  The tocsins are ringing, there is celebrating in the streets. The Queen has had her baby—a boy! One hundred and one guns were fired. Everywhere people call out, “Long live the Dauphin!”

  I clasp my baby to my heart and pray for the Queen. I do not envy her, for her baby is not her own. Her boy will be King. He belongs to God, to France—he belongs to us all.

  October 23.

  Last night I had a dream in which Monsieur de Beauharnais told me: “You are not my only wife.”

  I woke in a feverish sweat.

  This morning I told Mimi about the dream. Her face is like water, it shows the slightest disturbance. So I watched her.

  “What a crazy dream,” she said. But she had that look of caution.

  “If there were some truth in it, would you tell me?”

  “Ask Charlotte.” Charlotte is Aunt Désirée’s cook. Charlotte is a gossip and wields considerable power, and not just with a knife.

  “Mimi—don’t make me suffer the humiliation of learning this from Charlotte.”

  Mimi’s dark eyes filled with doubt.

  “Please!” For the truth was more and more evident.

  Mimi collected herself before continuing, in that proud and silent way she has. “Monsieur le vicomte keeps a mistress,” she said.

  A mistress. It did not surprise me. Monsieur de Beauharnais was rarely home. “Who?” I asked.

  Mimi bowed her head. The light glittered off her black hair. “Madame Longpré.”

  “Madame Laure Longpré?” I stuttered. “My cousin Laure Longpré?” I recalled the buxom woman who had called on Father and me when we had just arrived in France. I remembered her bosom adorned with glittering gems, her frothy pink gown. Mimi nodded.

  “But she’s so much older than Alexandre,” I objected. I was more confused than upset. I remembered the rhyme the boys used to sing: Laure, Laure, goes down to the lorry. I never knew what happened down at the lorry, but something told me it had to do with taking up petticoats.

  “There is more, there is a child. A boy.”

  “Monsieur de Beauharnais is the father? How do you know this? Who told you?”

  “Charlotte.”

  “It’s common knowledge? The Marquis? My father?”

  “I don’t know about your father.”

  I sat down on the edge of my bed. I held my face in my hands. Then I stood up.

  “Where are you going?”

  I went downstairs. I found Aunt Désirée in the pantry, checking the supplies. “May I talk to you?” I asked.

  “Can it wait, Rose?”

  I shook my head.

  “Go to the front parlour. I will join you in a moment.”

  I went into the parlour.

  Aunt Désirée entered the room and sat down, her hands planted purposefully in her lap. “Yes?” She had things to do.

  “I just found out about Madame Longpré.” I was relieved that I was tearless and that my voice was steady. “And about her child, Alexandre’s son.”

  “Oh,” Aunt Désirée said, with an appearance of calm.

  “Does it not matter?” I asked, emotion giving way.

  “Laure poses no threat to you, Rose. Alexandre cares for you, if that’s what concerns you.”

  “How do you know?” A mean-spirited bitterness had come over me.

  “Alexandre tells me everything.” Aunt Désirée sat back with a proprietorial air.

  I stood. I felt light-headed and needed to lie down. Aunt Désirée reached for my hand. “Rose, please—don’t be so provincial.”

  I headed for the stairs. Shortly after, Father came into my room. I refused to look at him, attending to a drawing I was reworking. He sat down beside my writing table, toying with a split quill. “Désirée suggested I talk to you,” he said.

  I held the drawing out at arm’s length. It was a portrait of Eugène. I was not content with the features.

  Father coughed. “I am told you are not happy.”

  “I am perfectly happy,” I said. Nevertheless, I could not disguise the trembling of my lower lip.

  “Rose, you were never one to be overly proud,” Father said, sighing. “And more than once you were blessed with the strength of forgiveness. Look how many times you have forgiven me.” He smiled, stilled another cough.

  “You are my father.”

  “I am a man. You have to understand, it is not easy for the young chevalier—”

  “Do not ask me to accept this, Father!” I stood up abruptly and went to the fire. I kneeled, picked up the bellows.

  “It is natural for any man to have … interests,” my father went on, breaking the quill in his hands. “But that doesn’t mean Alexandre doesn’t love you. A wife must learn to … to be accepting.”

  The ashes blew back in my face. “Do you think I do not notice when Alexandre puts his hand down the chambermaid’s bodice? Do you think I do not know that he slips his hand under her skirts when she is doing his hair, that he visits her bedchamber? Do you think I do not know that he gave Vicomtesse de Rosin-Mallarmé his portrait? That he keeps a collection of silk stockings—victory trophies!—in his cupboard? Do you think I am blind? I see, I know—and I look the other way. But this, this is different. Laure Longpré is my cousin!”

  I put the bellows to one side, stood up, brushing the ashes off my skirt. “You said yourself that no good would come of Laure. Remember when she visited when we first came to France? That child she had just given birth to was Alexandre’s, Father. Remember how she asked me to invite Monsieur de Beauharnais to call on her? And I—so stupidly! so innocently! so kindly!—obliged her. Remember how he left the very next week? To visit friends from his regiment, he said!”

  “If it makes you feel any better”—Father handed me a cap of whisky from the flask he carried—“I believe I am to blame.”

  I sat down on the footstool. The liquor burned going down. “What do you mean?” I handed him back the cap.

  “Laure’s family, as you know, has long hated ours—resented the favours the Marquis bestowed on me, such as they were, all because I was Désirée’s brother. I think it is no accident that Laure has meddled in your marriage. That family has spite in their blood. She is a cat, playing a mouse.”

  “Playing, Father? This game will be the death of me!”

  At five Monsieur de Beauharnais arrived home. I heard his voice in the entryway, heard Father’s low warning tones, hushed whispers.

  After a short time Monsieur de Beauharnais appeared at the door. “Aren’t you coming down for supper?”

  I refused to answer.

  “Désirée tells me you talked to her about Laure.” He came into the room.

  Laure. Not Laure Longpré. Not Madame Longpré. But Laure. I pressed my hand to my lips to check the feelings that were rising in me.

  “Oh, Rose, please!” Monsieur de Beauharnais had that same impatient tone: provincial. It was provincial of me to be upset about such a thing.

  “Don’t take that tone with me, Alexandre.” There were wet spots on my dress, splotches from my tears.

  Monsieur de Beauharnais walked to the window. “It’s stuffy in here.” He opened the window with some effort, for it tended to stick.

  “How can you be so nonchalant!”

  “You’ll wake the baby,” he warned.

  “You, who know so much about babies.” I turned away. “When shall we tell Eugène that he is not your firstborn—on his fifth birthday? Or perhaps we should tell him sooner, on his third—”

  “For God’s sake, Eugène is my only legal son.”

  “And Madame Longpré?” I could not stop myself. “Who is she?”’

  “Do you want me to be honest?”

  “I’ve had enough of deceit.”

  “You are my wife.” He pulled aside a drape and looked out onto the street.

  “And …?”

  “And Laure is the wom
an I love.”

  “Get out!”

  “You wanted the truth!”

  I flung a pillow, and another. I was trembling as I reached for a vase.

  In which I come to the end of my endurance

  December 13, 1781.

  “My daughter wears a long face,” Father said as I brought him his evening glass of claret. Ever since Monsieur de Beauharnais left for Italy six weeks ago, Father has been kindly.

  “Do I?” I knew it to be true. It was the day of my marriage to Monsieur de Beauharnais, two years before. Our anniversary.

  Father grabbed my hand. “Come back with me, Rose.”

  “To Martinico?” Father’s health had improved and he’d succeeded in getting a small increase in his pension. Soon he would be returning home.

  “Your husband does not honour you sufficiently.”

  I was surprised by his words. Had he “honoured” my mother sufficiently?

  “I couldn’t,” I said. Eugène was too young—the journey could kill him.

  “Leave your baby with a wet-nurse. You may send for him in time, when he is old enough to travel.”

  Leave Eugène? It was the common practice, I knew. Yet I could not bear the thought. “Forgive me, Father, but I could not.” My baby was my only joy.

  Father looked at me for a long moment. “You créole mothers,” he sighed.

  January 19, 1782.

  Father left this morning. He didn’t look back as the carriage pulled away. I’m on my own now. I feel a lifetime older.

  [Undated]

  A feeling of loneliness continues to haunt me. This Easter week I have been examining my conscience. Monsieur de Beauharnais and I were united by God. Is it my right to question this union? I have vowed to the Virgin that I would write to my husband, and in my pitiful prose, which he so detests, I will offer him my heart.

  July 25—Noisy-le-Grand.