The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B.

by Sandra Gulland

  Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais

  July 18, 1791—Rue de Tournon, Paris

  Darling!

  It’s late, almost midnight, but I feel compelled to write. Alexandre gave a wonderful speech at the Jacobin Club tonight—so uplifting! We were all of us there to applaud him: Marie, Michel de Cubières, Frédéric. Even Princess Amalia came to hear him, in spite of her Royalist leanings. After we all went to the Café Covazza in the Palais-Royal. There Alexandre informed me that you intend to move to Paris, in order that your children might be educated.

  Although transported with joy at the thought of seeing you and your wee darlings more often, I thought it would only be fair to warn you what Paris is like right now. It seems we are forever swinging from one extreme to the other, beginning with the sublime and ending in the tragic. Observe:

  The week began with the grand fête and procession moving Voltaire’s remains to the Pantheon—another of the brilliantly theatrical events orchestrated by the painter David. (Have you met him? He came to my salon once.) Of course I had to go—you know how I feel about our Apostle of Tolerance. The service began in the Masonic Lodge of the Nine Sisters, then wended its way through a number of triumphal arches to the site of the old Bastille. There the coffin rested overnight.

  By the time Michel Cubières and I got back Monday morning the roses, myrtles and laurels had been stripped. Representatives of the sections and clubs had turned out in togas and red wool caps (like those awful itchy ones we have to wear at Masonic meetings). The coffin was loaded onto a chariot and pulled to the Pantheon by a team of white horses. I melted with tears.

  Thursday, another fête at the Bastille, this time for the Fête de la Fédération. We didn’t go (how unpatriotic) but that night the sky was fairly blooming with fire-rockets.

  And yesterday, as if we must be punished for enjoying ourselves excessively, there was the tragic riot on the Champ-de-Mars. It began as a peaceful assembly—Marie was there with one of her women’s groups to sign a petition in favour of a Republic. It got out of hand when two men, spies (or so it isthought), were discovered hiding under the central platform, and were promptly lynched. So Lafayette called out the National Guard, someone in the crowd yelled “Fire!” and now more than fifty are dead.

  Thank God Marie was not harmed! Over the course of the day I virtually emptied my bottle of laudanum. It did not help in the least that it was washing week here and the two women I’d hired to help kept disappearing to go off to some fête or demonstration or riot. And now, all these dreary funerals.

  If, despite my warnings, you persevere in this matter of your children’s education, and move to our entertaining city, I recommend you contact Madame Hosten, a créole widow with three children (only one home still, I believe). I’ve been told that she has just purchased a hôtel on Rue Saint-Dominique (not too far from Hôtel de Salm), and is looking for someone to help share the expenses. It’s in a good district—there, at least, the neighbourhood ruffians aren’t out cutting off cats’ ears. You will find her a genial woman and will most assuredly not regret my sending you to her.

  Your loving Aunt Fanny

  July 26, 1791—Rue Saint-Dominique, Paris.

  Dear Madame Beauharnais,

  Your welcome letter was received yesterday. I take the liberty, through your aunt Madame Fanny Beauharnais, of addressing you a few lines relative to the inducements of my new abode.

  The house is large, divided into two apartments, with rooms for domestics on the third floor. My daughter (age twelve) and I occupy the ground floor. The upstairs suite is small but sunny. There is a walled-in garden. The Church of Saint Thomas Aquinas is immediately behind us.

  It will give me much pleasure to see you at our residence next Monday evening in order that you might view the accommodations. Hoping to have the pleasure of welcoming yourself and your family as neighbours, I am,

  Yours, very truly, Madame Hosten

  Tuesday, August 2—Fontainebleau.

  As arranged, I called on Madame Hosten on Rue Saint-Dominique, inorder to view the apartment. A maid in a day-gown of worked muslin answered the door and was about to speak when a huge and somewhat imposing woman appeared behind her. She was wearing a fencing mask and carrying a sabre in her hand. “Who is it?” she asked, removing the mask. Her voice was gentle, in contrast to her stance.

  “Madame Beauharnais.” I put forward my card, somewhat nervously, I confess. “I believe I am expected.”

  “What island are you from?” the woman exclaimed, recognizing my accent. She put down her sabre. “No—let me guess. Martinico?”

  She was Madame Hosten—and she’s from Sainte-Lucie. Her family even knows Father! After showing me the rooms—they are perfect, quite sunny—she invited me into her downstairs parlour for ginger sweets and a glass (or two) of pétépié. We talked for hours.

  Her name is Aimée. Although big (huge!), she is graceful in manner, dainty even. She has an acid wit, quite drôle. She is thirty—only two years older than I am—widowed, yet managing quite well on her own with three children, two boys aged fifteen and sixteen (serving an apprenticeship in the military), and a girl of twelve, Lucie, still at home. I’ve feel I’ve found a friend.

  September 1—Paris.

  I’m exhausted, we’ve moved. I’ve hired a chambermaid, Agathe Rible, a meek creature who stutters. I assure her she has nothing to fear, but she only quakes all the more. Already her trembling has resulted in three glasses shattered.

  September 14.

  In the Assembly today the King pledged an oath of allegiance to the constitution. Firecrackers have been exploding all afternoon. The Revolution is over!

  Alexandre joined us on Rue Saint-Dominique to celebrate. I took his cloak and hat at the door. “Congratulations,” I said, embracing him. He looked flushed and his breath smelled of brandy. No doubt there hadbeen many toasts proposed at the Jacobin Club.

  Eugène came sliding down the stair-rail and jumped into his father’s arms. “You won!”

  Alexandre laughed. “We all won.”

  Hortense came leaping down the stairs after her brother, three steps at a time. “Won what?”

  “A constitution,” Eugène told her officiously.

  “You must feel proud of what you’ve accomplished,” I said, upstairs in our new parlour. It had been an exhausting effort, I knew, to craft a constitution—one that gave France the best of two worlds, a Republic with a monarch. “And relieved.”

  “It remains to be seen if the King can actually work with it.” Alexandre tapped tobacco into his pipe, lit it. “Sharing power will be trying to him, I expect. He was raised to rule his subjects, not to be beholden to them.”

  “If he were wise, he would use this opportunity to unite France,” I said.

  “Wisdom is not inherent in kingship, regrettably. And now, no doubt, all the Royalist countries will be sending in their troops to save him from this horrifying development….”

  “You believe there will be war?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Austria?”

  He nodded. “And Prussia, and—“

  There was a sudden clattering on the stairs. Hortense and Eugène burst into the room. They’d caught a frog in the garden. Alexandre and I helped to make a “home” for the little thing out of a travelling basket. Then, after a meal of mutton and cream fritters, we took the children to the show of paintings at the annual Salon. As we entered the second gallery, there it was: Alexandre’s portrait, paired with that of Deputy Robespierre. Eugène and Hortense were of course most pleased, although they fail to comprehend the prestige that attends such an honour. We admired the likeness, which is excellent.

  On the way home, we walked along the river, exclaiming as each fire-rocket exploded. Lovers strolled languidly by. The memory of being introduced to Alexandre came back to me then—Alexandre so young, so worldly, so dashing in his white uniform, myself a nervous girl from the Islands, so anxious to please, so willing to offer my
heart.

  A fire-rocket burst directly overhead. I startled, clutched Alexandre’s arm. We laughed. The children, their cheeks pink, went running on ahead. A pleasing portrait, I thought: a man, his wife, two children, out for an evening stroll.

  February, 1792.

  It’s as Alexandre predicted: we’ve become a country under siege. Austrian and Prussian troops assemble at our borders, preparing to march on Paris, preparing to rescue us from democracy. Preparing to rescue our King.

  March 15.

  I’ve been overcome with the vapours. Daily I am bled. Hortense and Eugène hover, bringing me drinks of tea and rum. Night falls. Alone, I pull myself to my feet, fall to my knees in front of the holy-water stoup. I have not had news from home for over a year. In the silence, fears grow, bloom, take shape.

  I resist the cards, resist the temptation to look. But control was never my friend. I dig for them in the writing desk, in the upper corner of the top drawer, next to the bottle of ink. Pretending calm, I lay out the first card.

  The Falling Tower: the stones falling, the men tossed and turned as if by some force beyond their control.

  I did not need to see the rest: the Wheel of Fortune, Death, the Star turned upside-down.

  Manette is dead.

  I put the cards away.

  Manette—dear little one—I see you in the stars, I see you skipping over the boulders in the river. Wait for me! you cry out—to me, your bigsister. Wait for me!

  April 20.

  Paris has become an armed camp. The Church of Saint Thomas Aquinas is being used to assemble munitions: on the pews guns, muskets, swords, bayonets, even cannon balls are stacked. One sees men with pikes everywhere. Boys too young to fight stand in lines to sign up. Eugène watches them with envy. I pull him away.

  April 21.

  I woke with a feeling of foreboding, so when Alexandre arrived unexpectedly this morning, I felt threatened by vapours. “You’re in uniform.” I heard footsteps in the street, a woman calling out, distant drumbeats. The fear I’d felt on waking was with me still. “Married men do not have to serve, Alexandre. I don’t understand.”

  “The Republic is in need of officers.”* Alexandre put his hands on my shoulders. “Rose, please—don’t ask me to go into battle without your blessing.”

  It was a solemn moment, broken by the discovery of something wiggling inside Alexandre’s greatcoat. I cried out. Alexandre drew an animal out of his pocket—a horrid-looking pug, no bigger than a rodent. It had a fawn-coloured body and a black head. “It’s a King Charles,” he said. It squirmed out of his hands onto the rug. It was sniffing at my feet, making snorting noises, as if it couldn’t breathe. “A dog like this is worth ten louis,” Alexandre said proudly.

  I called for Agathe, my timid chambermaid, but she wouldn’t go near it—it looked too much like a rat. “It’s only a puppy,” I chided her, picking the little thing up and heading for the children’s room, motioning for Alexandre to follow.

  “Is it a dog?” Eugène asked, examining its corkscrew tail.

  “Does it bite?” Hortense this time, holding out her hand to it. She squealed when it licked her. It growled. “Is it hungry?”

  “Can we keep it?” Eugène asked.

  Alexandre looked at me: Would I?

  I held out my hand to the little thing. It licked and nipped me, its teethharmless but sharp. Its nose was flat, pushed into its face. It was a repulsive creature—yet it charmed me. “Fortuné. That’s what we will call him.”

  I do not need to say more. We—Alexandre, the children and I—passed the morning together most enjoyably. When we bid him farewell it was with regret. I gave him a stone I’d had since childhood, a talisman.

  “I will keep it with me always.” He hesitated at the door as we were parting. “May I kiss you, Rose?”

  “Say yes, Maman!” Eugène exclaimed.

  I embraced my husband.

  “May God be with you!” Hortense cried out as Alexandre passed through the gate. She burst into tears.

  “Come now,” I chided, drying her cheeks, “a soldier’s daughter must not weep.” Nor a soldier’s wife.

  * Before the Revolution, all of the officers had been aristocrats. When the Revolution came, most fled. There were few men left in France who had been trained to lead an army, fewer still with any experience.

  * The Commune was the municipal government of the city of Paris. Conflicts arose because the city government, which tended to be radical (urban-based), felt that the conservative (rural-based) national government was not doing enough to protect Paris. The Commune, therefore, felt justified in taking control.

  In which we are at war

  April 23, 1792.

  There is a curfew in Paris now. By ten the city is dark, silent but for the sound of the guards’ boots on the cobblestones and cats fighting in the alleyways. From somewhere, I hear a church bell ring out one note, a lovely, melancholy sound—and so rare now. Most church bells have been melted down for munitions.

  April 25, 1792—Valenciennes

  Dear Rose,

  I have been assigned to General Biron’s staff. Only a fraction of the available troops have been assembled here for fear of risking the safety of the fortified towns. The result is that the war plans are to be executed with very small numbers. On learning this, I had a will made up. I am forwarding it on to you, sealed. It is not to be opened until such time as…

  Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais

  May 2, 1792—Valenciennes

  Dear Rose,

  Forgive me for alarming you. And thank you for your prayers. If I’m to die of anything, it will likely be frustration. How am I to make soldiers of these farm boys? When they get hungry, bored or have a little fright they take up their muskets and head home.

  Give the children my love. I keep your talisman with me always.

  Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais

  May 4.

  Alexandre has been in battle against the Austrians. His behaviour was praised in the Moniteur. Proudly, I showed the article to the children. We have attached a large map to the wall of the dining area where we trace his progress. As well, we are making a book of clippings from the journals, which is already thick, for the Moniteur publishes Alexandre’s patriotic articles daily.

  May 17.

  Alexandre sends letters which he instructs me to burn. The revolutionary armies are small, he confides—ill-equipped and untrained. Suspicion rules. The troops do not trust their officers, the officers do not trust their troops. One general was forced to call off a bayonet charge because his troops voted against it, another was murdered by his own men. By his own men. Grand Dieu.

  Tuesday, June 19.

  This evening I heard a commotion. I looked out: the streets were jammed with horses, carts filled with possessions. What had happened? I ran downstairs to Aimée’s suite.

  “Oh, the King has everyone upset,” she sighed, stretching out on the chaise with remarkable calm. She was in her white fencing clothes, her sabre on the floor.

  Her chambermaid appeared at the door, carrying a portmanteau. “I’ll be needing my pay.”

  Aimée gave me a disgusted look. “They’re all in a panic, every last one of them.” Reluctantly she went to her writing desk.

  “Others have left?” I asked.

  The chambermaid cursed. “The Austrians march toward Paris and ourown King is going to open the gates wide to let the butchers in! Well—I won’t be here!”

  Aimée offered the woman paper money but she insisted on coin.

  “There goes another one,” Aimée sighed when the door slammed shut. “Let’s get out the brandy.”

  June 21.

  My chambermaid woke me this morning with excitement in her voice. “There was trouble last night.” Agathe handed me a bowl of hot chocolate. “The palace was invaded!”

  “Invaded?”

  “The people ran in, took over.” She wasn’t stuttering.

  “Agathe, explain, please—�
��

  Slowly I got the story. Yesterday’s feast-day festivities had turned to violence in the night. A mob of men and women had invaded the palace, demanding that the King bring in troops to protect Paris from the Austrians.

  “Is the Queen safe?” I asked. “The children?”

  Agathe looked at me suspiciously. I realized my mistake. One should never show sympathy for the royal family, especially not for the Queen.

  June 28.

  Agathe insists that the Queen is plotting to burn down the Assembly while all the deputies are in it, that muskets and gunpowder are stored in the basements of all the nunneries. And now Hortense will no longer eat bread. “I might die,” she said, for Agathe told her the priests plan to murder everyone by poisoning the holy bread.

  “Mademoiselle Agathe told you that?”

  Hortense looked at me with a horrified expression. “Maman—it is Citoyenne Agathe now, not Mademoiselle.”

  My daughter, the revolutionary. Now she refuses to speak during meals. It’s the patriotic way.

  Monday, July 2.

  Aimée and I went to the Comédie-Italienne to see Unforeseen Events with Madame Dugazon playing the soubrette. Princess Amalia had offered us the use of her loge.

  “The Queen is expected to be there,” Aimée said.

  “I didn’t think the Queen went out to the theatre any more,” I said. She’d let all her loges go months ago, something people held against her.

  “There’s been pressure on her to make an appearance.”

  Our loge was directly across from the one the royal family was to use. There was applause when Her Majesty entered, accompanied by her children—the Dauphin, a sweet-faced boy of about seven, and Madame Royale, almost a young woman now. The King’s sister Madame Elizabeth and another woman, the children’s governess, I guessed, were also with her.