The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B.

by Sandra Gulland

  “Can you come with me?” Fanny asked. “I can’t face her alone. Not again.” This is the third child Marie has lost.

  It was Alexandre’s brother François who came to the door to meet us, wearing a nightcap and a blue waistcoat over a bed gown. He looked distressed. I don’t know why this surprised me, for he is a man of feeling, with a tender regard for children. He led us into Marie’s bedchamber, where she was resting on a chaise longue, a dish of tea on the side-table. She was pale, without expression, like a dead person herself. Little Émilie was sitting quietly beside her mother, looking confused.

  We were told that the child was in her bed in the next room. I stayedwith Marie while Fanny went to help prepare the body, the sobbing nanny assisting.

  After the priest came, and then the doctor (who prescribed laudanum drops for Fanny as well as for Marie and François), I left, taking little Émilie back with me to Penthémont. Mimi, Eugène and I fuss over her gently. Even so, she refuses to speak.

  March 2.

  Eugène has worked his magic on Émilie. She follows him everywhere. She is a bright little thing, a little pixie with fair pink cheeks and coal black hair and eyes—but oh, so serious! Only Eugène can coax a smile from her.

  “I’m afraid we will have to take Émilie back home soon.” I broke the news to him gently. “To her own mother.” Marie was in need of her now, in need of her one surviving child.

  April 10—Noisy-le-Grand.

  Hortense is one today. She’s walking!

  April 27, 1784, Noisy-le-Grand

  Dear Madame Beauharnais,

  I am returning the money you sent me. Your husband came for a visit last week and paid for two months. He brought some pretty baubles from the funfair for the baby. She didn’t make strange at all. He sang her a ballad and danced about with her, which made her spit up but he didn’t mind too much. You never mentioned your husband. I hope I did the right thing.

  Respectfully, Madame Rousseau

  Tuesday, January 11, 1785—Noisy-le-Grand.

  Aunt Désirée has received word that Alexandre would like to see Eugène. “And he would consent to see me as well,” she said, examining the letter.

  The Marquis snorted. “How good of him.”

  “I think you should go,” I told her.

  Aunt Désirée spent the morning getting ready. She settled on her blue silk robe with a black velvet cape. I loaned her my hat with the blue ribbons, which complemented the dress nicely. She was flustered, which brought some colour to her cheeks.

  I dressed Eugène in his best clothes. “Am I going to church?” he asked. He is too young to grasp the situation. To him, “father” is the Marquis—why should it be otherwise?

  Aunt Désirée returned at nightfall looking relieved. Eugène was quite excited about the bounty of presents this “stranger” had heaped upon him.

  “Alexandre asked if I could bring Eugène once a week.” Aunt Désirée took off her hat and tidied her hair.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “It might help.” She paused. “Although there will be no changing his mind.”

  I stiffened. Even if Alexandre were to relent, could my heart open? “And you? How did you find him?”

  “Oh, he was full of pretty words—”

  I knew Alexandre’s pretty words. “But his heart was not there?”

  Aunt Désirée looked at me, her eyes filling with tears. “How can that be?”

  Friday, February 4.

  Today, as I returned from my clothier, Mimi rushed to me in the most terrible state, crying out in the African tongue.

  “Speak!” I demanded. She had fallen to her knees. “Mimi, mon Dieu!”

  “The boy! He’s gone!”

  I could not comprehend. Eugène? Gone? What did that mean?

  In a rush her story came out. She’d allowed Eugène to play in the courtyard, as was our custom. Every few minutes she looked out. Eugène had been beating on a drum and the din served as a means of keeping track of him. She’d gone into her room to search for a particular colour thread. When she came back out she noticed that the courtyard had become silent. She looked out the window. The courtyard was empty.

  She ran down to the courtyard and out the iron gates—which were closed, she assured me—and onto the street. Eugène was nowhere to be seen. She questioned the tenants, but could get no answers. She ran for the Abbesse, but she was out.

  I went to the open window, looked out at the empty courtyard. “Eugène!” I called out. I hurried through our rooms, looking into every closet, under the beds. I could not believe that Eugène was not there. It was then that I noticed a piece of paper sticking out from under the carpet. Apparently it had been pushed under the door. I picked it up, knowing even before I read it what it would reveal.

  It was from Alexandre. He had taken Eugène.

  It did not take long to send for a fiacre and find our way to the Rochefoucauld town house on Rue de Seine. The big doors to the courtyard were still open, the horses had not yet been unhitched. A footman in livery opened the door.

  Alexandre came to the foyer with a cautious look. We hadn’t seen each other since he’d left my bed in the night, two years before. He looked the same, if pale and thin, no doubt from the lingering effects of the malignant fever he had contracted in Martinico. He was without a wig, his hair long, hanging about his shoulders.

  “I’ve come for Eugène.” I tried to calm myself.

  “I won’t have my son growing up in a house of women!” he said.

  “Then permit me to live elsewhere with him!” I cried.

  He turned his back, commanding the footman to shut the heavy door. Mimi pulled me away.

  February 5.

  I’ve notified the authorities. A hearing has been set one month from today, but until then I am powerless. Alexandre, as the father, may do as he pleases with Eugène.

  Mimi has gone to stay at Alexandre’s in order to look after Eugène. I am unbearably alone here.

  Saturday, February 7.

  As I was packing to go to Noisy-le-Grand, tiny Madame de Crény called. She was in need of diversion, she said. Her coach had been tied up in traffic at Saint-Sulpice for over an hour. “An enormous wedding.” She removed her hat. She was wearing a travelling suit of grey silk with abundant lace trimming that overwhelmed her tiny figure. At her neck and elbows were huge pink-and-white-striped bows. “General Arthur Dillon and that woman with the bosom. Créole, I am told. Perhaps you know her. Apparently she met Dillon in Martinico. Her name is Longbeau, Longpreid … something like that. She chews candles, I’ve heard.”

  Laure Longpré.

  “You should have seen the equipages. The Queen and King signed the wedding contract.” Madame de Crény rolled her eyes. “Even Duchesse de Monge’s sister couldn’t get that honour, and she practically lives with the Queen.”

  I sat down, stunned. The Queen and King? Signed their wedding contract? Alexandre’s bloodline wasn’t even noble enough to permit him to sit in a royal equipage. “Madame Longpré is a cousin of mine.” I paused. “My husband fancied her,” I said.

  “Was she the one?” Madame de Crény said sweetly. “Oh …!” She took my hand. “And now she has married General Dillon?”

  I recalled the deranged expression in Alexandre’s eyes. “Curious,” I said, “is it not?” Curious and cruel.

  March 3.

  After mass this morning the Abbesse came to my door. “Your husband wishes to speak with you.”

  “Alexandre?” Tomorrow both Alexandre and I are to appear in court. Why would he come at this time? “Is Eugène with him?”

  The Abbesse shook her head. “You must consider whether or not you wish to speak with him.”

  “What harm might there be?”

  “If you do consent to receive him, Rose, I recommend that you do so in the presence of your lawyer.”

  “I’ll agree to nothing, I promise you.”

  “You’ll receive him?”

  “
If you will stay with me.”

  “That is wise.”

  She was gone for what seemed a long time. When Alexandre entered, I was puzzled by the look in his eyes. It has always been difficult to interpret Alexandre’s emotions, and this time was no different.

  The Abbesse settled herself into a chair by the door. Alexandre seemed uncomfortable about her presence, and for a moment I thought he was going to protest. Then, he spoke. “Rose, after a period of deliberation I have come to the conclusion—” He stopped to clear his throat. “I have come to the conclusion that I have been in error.”

  I was shocked by his confession, but remained, nevertheless, cautious. How many times has Alexandre fooled me with his golden words, jewels given but not paid for?

  Alexandre turned to the Abbesse. “I have come to comprehend the … grievousness of my actions—while I was in Martinico, and again, most recently, in taking Eugène. I have no defence,” he went on, addressing me now, “but that I was possessed by emotions I could not control. I have vowed to make amends. Eugène will be returned to you shortly. At the hearing tomorrow I will plead guilty, for it is guilty I stand before you.”

  It was silent but for the steady ticking of the clock. “Madame de Beauharnais—if I may address your husband,” the Abbesse said.

  I nodded.

  “Vicomte de Beauharnais, I urge you to continue in this line of thinking. It will only bear fruit. The appearance of a fiat lux* in one’s life helps not only oneself, but all those around one, and puts in motion any number of blessed events. But it is not to this purpose I wish to speak. I would advise your wife to accept your apology—but only were it to be expressed in a more tangible form, such as an equitable and prompt settling of accounts overdue. But at the same time I would caution her to be aware of the benefits that might accrue to you in light of your confession of guilt, for your sins might perhaps be judged less severely, and you might standto gain in this way. Is this not so? Tell me truthfully,” she went on, “how does your lawyer feel about this … this ‘confession’ of yours?”

  “Abbesse, respectfully,” I interrupted. “I thank you for your counsel. I will hold your words close to my heart. But at this moment I would like to have a word with my husband, in private.”

  The Abbesse looked at me with concern.

  “I promise I will not do anything foolish,” I whispered, accompanying her to the door.

  She touched my shoulder as she departed.

  I closed the door behind me and turned to Alexandre, pulling my shawl around my shoulders. “Alexandre, tell me what this means—I have lived with uncertainty too long.”

  “I am prepared to give you whatever you ask, Rose. I look back with regret on the things I did, the things I said. I can only conclude that I was not myself. Perhaps it was the delirium I suffered in Martinico, occasioned by the fever.”

  Relief filled my soul, followed by caution. I recalled the Abbesse’s words. “What will you be demanding at the court hearing, in the way of a settlement?”

  Alexandre turned his face to the embers in the fireplace. “I will agree to anything. A public apology, an admission of error, a monthly allowance, your freedom to live where you please … whatever you require.”

  I went to the window. A bricklayer was working on the courtyard wall. “And in exchange?”

  “I only ask for custody of my son, when he turns five.”

  Eugène!

  “You will have Hortense,” he pleaded. “Can’t you grant me Eugène? A boy needs his father. He will need what I can teach him. You know that, Rose. For the boy’s sake.”

  For the boy’s sake.…

  * Monsieur Joron’s father described Rose in the following way to his wife: “a fascinating young person, a lady of distinction and elegance, with perfect style, a multitude of graces and the most beautiful of speaking voices.”

  * She is referring to Genesis, “Let there be light.”

  In which ill-fortune plagues us

  March 12, 1785—Fontainebleau

  Darling!

  Congratulations! Who would have imagined that a woman could take her husband to court and win!* How unthinkable! All the ladies are in a fever of excitement over your victory. I’ve been told that even the Queen talks of it. You are a heroine now!

  I’ve finally persuaded your aunt and the Marquis to join me here in Fontainebleau. The estate she has leased on Rue de Montmorin is well located, and big—stables for twelve horses! And all for the price of some Paris hovel, no doubt.

  Is it true that you intend to join us soon? I pray that it is so. My salon here in Fontainebleau could use your lively heart.

  Your loving Aunt Fanny

  March 24, 1785—Fontainebleau

  Dear Rose,

  With the proceeds from the sale of Noisy-le-Grand, I’ve been able to secure a long-term lease on an esta te here in Fontaineblea u. You will loveit. There is a lovely suite of rooms for you and the children overlooking the garden.

  You will be pleased to know that Alexandre paid us a call to inform us personally of the results of the settlement. He and his father have come to terms. What a great joy this is to me. Already I can see an improvement in the Marquis’s health.

  Do join us soon. The garden, quite large, is much in need of your special attention. The prices are reasonable and there isn’t all that disagreeable mob one encounters in Paris now.

  We miss Eugène. Alexandre told us a number of charming stories—it is clear that he is quite fond of the boy. As for Hortense, he made a point of mentioning that he would like “his daughter” (his exact words) weaned from her wet-nurse. I told him it would be best for her to be weaned after you move. I know it is hard to wait, but it is not an easy process. Best to be settled first.

  Your loving Aunt Désirée

  July 22, Saint Mary Magdalen’s Day—Fontainebleau.

  How quiet Fontainebleau is—so unlike Paris, which never rests. This morning I took my morning cup of chocolate into the garden, breathing in the cleansing air. I could hear the soothing clip-clop of the chimney sweep’s horse, the creaking of the rag collector’s wagon. From somewhere close a rooster crowed. We will be happy here.

  July 24, evening.

  This afternoon Madame Rousseau, the wet-nurse, brought Hortense. The good woman bawled leaving “her” girl behind, she has formed such a strong attachment. When Hortense saw the carriage pull away she began screaming as if she were being tortured. This horrible state lasted for over two hours.

  Now, at last, she has fallen into an exhausted sleep. I look upon the face of my daughter with apprehension. Will she ever love me?

  Friday, September 23.

  Father writes that there has been no income earned on La Pagerie, or even on the Marquis’s properties in Saint-Domingue.*

  “No income at all? But how is that possible?” Aunt Désirée exclaimed when I read out the letter. “How are we to manage?”

  Indeed. Already my debts are mounting. Alexandre hasn’t paid support for four months. He recently bought a country property in the Loire from his brother and claims to have no cash. And now, without income from the Islands …

  May 4, 1786.

  A Madame Croÿ came to call this afternoon. She’d sent a letter from Paris a week ago requesting an audience on a matter she said concerned us.

  She is a humble woman of quiet composure. Although her clothes were tattered, she wore them with grace. She was nervous in our company, but when she perceived that we were kindly, she was able to speak her mind.

  Her daughter, a married woman with three children, is about to have another. She explained that her daughter intended to put this baby into the charities, for she could not afford to provide for it. Madame Croÿ was concerned about this possibility, for she knew what the fate of that child would be. Indeed, more than half the babies given over each year die.**

  “Why have you come to us?” I asked.

  “Because the Vicomte de Beauharnais is the father—”

  “Ale
xandre?” Aunt Désirée interrupted.

  “I do not believe he would deny it.” The spots of rouge on Madame Croÿ’s cheeks were garishly bright in the afternoon sun.

  I sat back. I had falsely assumed I would no longer be affected by Alexandre’s reprehensible behaviour. I was mistaken.

  “You’re not going to suggest that we take the child,” Aunt Désirée said.

  “No—I thought perhaps you … I thought if you could help—”

  “Financially, you mean.” Aunt Désirée sighed.

  “It wouldn’t take much, but it is more than I can offer. I had to sell my winter cloak to purchase a coach ticket to come see you today.”

  “How much would your daughter require in order to keep the child?” I asked.

  “I do not believe she has the heart for it,” Madame CroŸ said. “I am ashamed to say so, but the baby would be better in the care of a foster parent. I do laundry for a woman, a Madame d’Antigny, the wife of a goldsmith, but a paresseuse—she has no children of her own. She might be willing, were the financial needs looked after.”

  “You have discussed this with her?” Aunt Désirée asked.

  “Aunt Désirée, I think we should talk to Alexandre,” I said.

  May 6.

  Alexandre arrived in the rain. He’d set out from Paris the day before, but the roads were so muddy a linchpin had been lost from one of the fore wheels and they had had to stop at an inn along the way.

  He’d been alarmed by my use of a mounted courier. “Bad news always comes fast. Is it Father? Do not keep me in suspense, I beg you.” His yellow velvet frock coat was splattered with mud.

  “A Madame Croÿ came to see us,” I said.

  Alexandre leaned his sword against the wall. “Do I know this Madame Croÿ?” Aubin cleaned the mud off his boots.

  “She claims you enjoyed an amourette with her daughter.” Aunt Désirée appeared in the doorway behind us, wearing a brocade dressing gown over her corset and petticoat. She’d interrupted her toilette to come to the door, her hair greased but unpowdered.