A courier came this morning with a message: Monsieur de Beauharnais was in Paris. Immediately I called for a carriage. I asked Mimi to prepare the baby. She dressed Eugène in his sailor suit—an ensemble intended for a child one year older. I kissed his fat little nose. He rewarded me with a smile, his feet kicking. I tried to nurse before I dressed, but I was too anxious. Eugène fretted and began to cry. “I will try again on the way,” I told Mimi, handing Eugène back to her. Nervously I prepared my own toilette, choosing a cream silk visiting suit and a big straw hat with wide cream ribbons that tied under my chin. The jacket was a little tight for me.
All the way in I thought of what I was going to say. At the edge of a woods I instructed the driver to pull into a shady glen. This time Eugène was hungry enough that he nursed no matter my emotional state. I held a handkerchief to my other nipple to keep from staining my jacket. “I’m nervous,” I told Mimi.
At the Hôtel de la Rochefoucauld I presented my card. Mimi stood behind me with Eugène, humming to him. I adjusted his funny little sailor hat, which had fallen down over his eyes.
“Rose.”
I turned. It was Monsieur de Beauharnais, standing in the open doorway. He looked stylish in a double-breasted waistcoat embroidered in gold. I offered my hand. “It’s good to see you, Alexandre.” The baby let out a squeal. Mimi lifted him into his father’s arms. For a moment I feared Eugène might take fright in the arms of this stranger, but he didn’t. He stared at the gold buttons on his father’s waistcoat, reached out to touch one.
“Is it all right to hold him this way?” Monsieur de Beauharnais asked nervously.
“He’s a strong, healthy boy, you will not hurt him,” I said, following him into the parlour.
Monsieur de Beauharnais touched the baby’s chin with his finger. Eugène rewarded him with a grin. “He smiled at me! Do you think he knows who I am?” Eugène began to fuss. “I must have done something wrong.” Monsieur de Beauharnais handed his son to Mimi. Eugène began to howl.
“Is there somewhere I could walk with him?” Mimi asked.
“The garden is through those doors,” he said.
I removed my hat, touched my hair. Monsieur de Beauharnais filled a pipe with tobacco. I sat down, for my knees felt insecure. “How was Italy?” I asked.
“Rainy.” He paused. “Lonely.”
In spite of my prayers, I could feel anger rising within me. I willed such feelings away. They were the work of the Devil, not of God. For within me, too, was the longing that had become so much a part of me. For the sake of my son, for my own sake, I wanted my husband with me. For this, I was willing to forget, to give my heart anew.
Monsieur de Beauharnais lit his pipe, sucking in air through the stem. “I received your letter,” he said, exhaling smoke.
There was a moment of silence. I heard my baby shriek from outside. Eugène, happy again.
“It was the reason for my return.” He examined his fingertips.
I stood, went to the window, looked out. I feared I might say the wrong thing.
Monsieur de Beauharnais put his pipe down on the fireplace mantle. “I … I know it has not been easy for you, Rose, but on my travels I’ve had time to reflect, to examine the past … and to consider the future.” He cleared his throat. “I have decided … that is, I have made the decision, to forsake a certain woman.”
A certain woman. I turned to him. “Will that be difficult, Alexandre?”
He came to me and kissed me, lightly at first. “No,” he said. I put my hand on the back of his neck. He embraced me with feeling. My heart weakened.
I heard my baby crying. I pulled away. Mimi was at the door, holding a crying Eugène in her arms. “I could come back later,” she said, grinning.
Monsieur de Beauharnais ran his fingers over his hair. “No, come in.…” He kissed my hand.
We have returned to the country, Monsieur de Beauharnais and I, Mimi and our son. Now and again a voice of warning sounds in me; I do not pay it heed. I am intent on putting loneliness behind me.
September 1.
I woke with the most delicious feeling of warmth, curled next to my husband, a sense of peace filling me. I am with child again.…
September 3, evening.
Eugène’s first birthday. I’ve had the most shattering news. Monsieur de Beauharnais has applied for the position of aide-de-camp to the governor of Martinico.
“But Alexandre, our son is too young. I couldn’t leave him behind. And if I’m—”
“I don’t think it would be safe for either of you.”
“You would leave us?”
“I have much to gain in taking this opportunity—”
“And everything to lose,” I cried, which set the baby howling.
September 7.
This morning I woke and Monsieur de Beauharnais was gone. He had left in the night.
December 10.
I’ve learned that Laure Longpré, now a widow, is on the same boat as Monsieur de Beauharnais, also headed for Martinico.
A feeling of bitterness overwhelms me. I’ve been betrayed.
I pray for strength. I must endure—for my boy’s sake, for the sake of the child within me.
April 10, 1783.
In the morning I gave birth, earlier than expected. She is red, frail—she sleeps the sleep of the dead.
After the cord was cut, after the accoucher had bathed her in red wine and wrapped her in cotton wool, Mimi bathed me with a fragrant tea. I began to say something but she silenced me. A woman who has just given birth should never speak. “Else a wind come inside you,” she said.
I closed my eyes, my lips. I closed my heart. A wind has already come inside me, a storm carrying tears.
April 11.
My baby was baptized this afternoon. Fanny, as godmother, has suggested the name Hortense. It is not a name I care for. I am too weary to object. I had to sell a medallion in order to pay the priest.
I don’t remember feeling this way after Eugène was born … so sad, so sad.
April 22—Noisy-le-Grand.
Hortense is not growing. The doctor insists I put her in the care of a wet-nurse. He has recommended Madame Rousseau in the village here.
“A wet-nurse in Noisy-le-Grand would be better than one in Paris,” Aunt Désirée said, in answer to my concerns. “In Paris the wet-nurses starve their charges. They take in laundry and overexert themselves, which spoils their milk.”
I regarded the screaming baby in my arms. She’d sucked for hours and, even so, writhed with discontent. Was my own milk spoiled? Could grief spoil a mother’s milk?
So today Aunt Désirée and I went to interview Madame Rousseau. Her abode is humble but clean. No animals are kept inside. She has aone-year-old boy (healthy, I noted), still nursing but ready to wean, she assured us. Her bosom seemed ample—she displayed it for inspection.
“I can come for your baby this evening,” she said.
So soon? “I was thinking tomorrow,” I said.
“This evening would be better,” Aunt Désirée said. My baby’s crying distressed the Marquis, I knew.
Hortense was wailing when we returned. Mimi was pacing the floor with her. I took my miserable baby from her, put her to suck, but in a short time she was screaming once again. I walked her in the garden for over an hour, until mercifully she fell into an exhausted sleep. If Madame Rousseau’s milk will ease my baby’s cries, I will rest content.
April 24.
I am ill, in terrible pain still, I have not slept. After my baby was taken from me Mimi bound my breasts, but even so, one became inflamed, my milk blocked. The doctor has been coming each morning to bleed me. After, I am able to sleep, but wake weeping.
Eugène brings me leaves torn from the lilac bush in the garden. His sweet kisses are my only consolation. That and the news that my baby has stopped crying. I have been advised not to visit her until my milk dries.
Who would have thought this would have been such a heart-wrenching proces
s? I keep one of my baby’s night-shirts under my pillow at night, press it to my lips as I sleep, inhale her sweet scent. My longing to hold her is so strong it makes me ill. I mourn for mothers everywhere.
June 30.
The Marquis has received several letters regarding Alexandre’s dissolute behaviour in Martinico, where, he has learned, his son drinks, gambles and consorts publicly with a number of women (not only Laure), oblivious to the disgrace to his family name. Dangerously enraged, the Marquis composed a letter to the King demanding that his son be arrested under a lettre de cachet. With some effort Aunt Désirée apprehended it before it was sent.
September 2.
I was finishing the embroidery on a vest for Eugène when Mimi brought me an envelope. “It’s from your husband,” she said.
“A courier brought it?” It was unusual for a courier to come so early.
“A woman.” Mimi stared at the floor. “Madame Longpré.”
“Madame Laure Longpré?” Was she not in Martinico? “She came here?” I regarded the envelope in my hand. It smelled of iris powder. I broke the seal and slipped out the paper.
It was a letter—a letter from Monsieur de Beauharnais.
“What is it?” Mimi asked, perceiving my distress.
“Monsieur de Beauharnais has ordered me out of the house … into a convent. He claims—” I stopped. I could not say it. Alexandre claimed that Hortense was not his child.
“Allow me to fetch Madame!”
I did not protest. I felt myself weakening. Aunt Désirée came rushing into the room. She took the letter from me.
In it Monsieur de Beauharnais called me a vile creature. He accused me of having had numerous affairs as a girl. He claimed I’d lain with a man the night before I left to be betrothed to him, and with another in Saint-Pierre on the voyage to France. He claimed to have proof.
Aunt Désirée sank into the chair beside me. “Mon Dieu,” I heard her whisper.
I felt the world become heavy around me.
III
Madame
In which I am banished to a convent
October 29, 1783.
“The fee is six hundred livres a year for a room, eight hundred livres for board,” the Abbesse of the abbey de Penthémont informed us. She is a small woman of middle age, pretty in spite of a pocked face. She speaks with that particular cadence that identifies a member of the highest level of the noble class.
I nodded. I had expected it to be more. The convent of Penthémont was an elegant establishment for aristocratic ladies in distress. The Princess of Condé had been a boarder there.
The apartment that is available is parlour number three, on the second floor, overlooking a stone courtyard. The rooms, four in number, are not large, but sunny and simply furnished. Through two huge oak trees I could see the glittering dome of the Invalides.
Aunt Renaudin felt along the windowsill for dust.
“Satisfied, Madame?” the Abbesse inquired with a forgiving smile.
I move in at the end of November.
November 1.
“Why should you move out!” the Marquis stormed. He can’t even look at me without sputtering. His son has disappointed him in the most grievous way. Since returning to Paris, Alexandre has refused to even speak to his family. As a result, the Marquis’s gout has flared.
I am touched by his loyalty, yet what can I do? By law I must do as Alexandre commands, in spite of the fact that he hasn’t contributed an écu toward my support since he abandoned me over a year ago, in spite of his dissolute behaviour, his attack on my honour.
Eugène burst into tears when I told him. He wants to stay with “Papa,” he wept, his beloved Marquis. How can I explain?
November 27.
We’ve moved, Mimi, Eugène and I. “I want to go home!” Eugene cried when I showed him his new bed.
December 1.
Yesterday morning I received an elegantly scribed invitation to dine with the Abbesse.
Her rooms are on the ground floor, directly below my own. We were joined by three other boarders—Vicomtesse de Douai (tall, elegant), Duchesse de Monge (witty, plump) and Madame de Crény (tiny, sweet). We enjoyed an elegant meal of fresh oysters, brochette de rognons, foie gras aux truffles and, last, a fondue, which was put on the table in a casserole with a chafing-dish and a spirit lamp. After we sat by the fire drinking les régals à gloire—a hot coffee and cognac drink that is popular now.
That evening there was a gathering in the apartment of Vicomtesse de Sotin. Monsieur Beaumarchais, the playwright, attended. After readings and song there were the usual discussions concerning the weather, theatre and politics. Then we got on to the more relaxing pursuits—gossip and games. (The Abbesse is unbeatable at trictrac, I discovered.) I feared the sound of our laughter would disturb our neighbours, but the Abbesse said I need not be concerned—that over the years they have had to become accustomed to it.
Life here is not at all what I expected.
Tuesday, December 2, 11:00 P.M.
This afternoon, taking in yet another one of my dresses (I’ve become thin), I informed Aunt Désirée that I intended to seek a legal separation.
Aunt Désirée looked concerned. “A separation, Rose? Have you any idea what that would entail—the social stigma that would attach to you and your children?”
“Yet you obtained a legal separation from your husband.” In the first year of her marriage, Aunt Désirée’s husband had tried to poison her.
“And I have paid the price. Many a time I have been excluded from gatherings. It matters not at all if a woman is innocent. She has been tarnished and is not considered fit for proper society.” Aunt Désirée put down her needlework. “And what if Alexandre proved contentious, Rose? Are you willing to expose the details of your private life for all of Paris to see? A woman is rarely the victor in such a battle. Even if you were beaten black and blue, it would be viewed as your husband’s right—and your duty to be submissive to his wish, whatever his wish might be.”
“Am I to do nothing?” I demanded, jabbing the needle into my thumb by mistake. With some effort, I refrained from cursing. “Alexandre has attacked my honour in an entirely public way.”
“But what of your son? Think how it will affect him. Eugène is old enough to understand the taunts of his playmates.”
“Think how a stain on my honour will affect him. Imagine what it will be like for him, having a mother who is forced to live in a convent until the end of her days. And what of Hortense? Her prospects for a good marriage will be seriously diminished. A legal separation is my only alternative—both for my sake and for the sake of my children.”
Aunt Désirée sighed. “I will pray for you, Rose.”
December 8, late afternoon.
This afternoon I met with Monsieur Joron, King’s Counsel and commissioner at Chastelet, to make official my record of complaint. He came with his father* and his secretary. It was trying, laying bare the failure of my marriage, but they were tactful and put me at my ease.
Monsieur Joron told me that it will take a few months for an order for a separation of person and dwelling to be issued, and that I shouldn’t expect settlement for more than a year after that. Until then, I must live according to my husband’s wishes.
“One full year?”
The secretary transcribed my testimony in his careful hand. I was asked to read it over and sign each page. “How shall I sign?” I asked. “As Beauharnais, or Tascher de la Pagerie?”
“However you prefer.”
I wrote: Tascher de la Pagerie.
And so it is—my marriage undone.
December 13—Noisy-le-Grand.
We are at Noisy-le-Grand for a few days. Four years ago Alexandre and I were married here, shared the bed I sleep in now. I remember so clearly the first time I saw him, a handsome young man reading Cicero’s Treatise on Laws in the salon of the Hôtel Graves in Brest. It seems another world, another time—another Rose.
After Eugène wok
e from his nap we walked to Madame Rousseau’s to see Hortense. She giggled in her brother’s clumsy embrace. I held them both in my arms. How can I regret a union that has given me two such beautiful children?
Monday, December 22.
The women here make a fuss over me. Their warmth puzzles me. Well-bred, wealthy and titled, they are much above my station.
“They perceive a natural elegance in your demeanour,” the Abbesse told me this morning. (I read to her; in return she helps me with my enunciation.) “And, too, there is nothing so rewarding as an avid student.”
An avid student I confess I have become. I long to feel at ease in this world, among these women—but there is so much to learn: how to bow, how to enter a room, how to take a seat, how to speak. Quietly I observe the way Vicomtesse de Douai orders her coach, how Duchesse de Mongebows (and for whom, and how low, depending), watch for whom her footman opens both double doors and for whom only one is opened, listen to the way the Abbesse speaks, her aristocratic inflection.
In the privacy of my room, I practise before the long looking glass, bow deeply to my image in the glass. “Don’t laugh!” I tell Mimi, who watches me with a mocking smile.
February 4, 1784.
Alexandre is suing for the return of my jewellry, including the medallion I had to sell in order to pay for Hortense’s baptism. He claims that it was part of his inheritance, that I had no right to sell it.
I am so enraged I cannot sleep. Alexandre provides nothing for my support. I am increasingly desperate for funds. Every day, it seems, there is a creditor at my door. Yesterday I was presented with a bill for jewels I had never even seen. I gave the man Alexandre’s address and directed him there, trying not to reveal my rage.
February 23.
Fanny called early this morning, her heavily powdered face streaked with tears. Her daughter Marie has suffered yet another infant death. The youngest, Amédée, died in the night, succumbing to a fever. She was not even two. It was three-year-old Émilie who’d discovered her “sleeping” sister.
The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B. Page 10
