September 27.
Lannoy’s brother-in-law has made a fortune buying estates for very little and then selling them at an inflated value. On Lannoy’s suggestion, I’ve appealed to him for a loan—for fifteen thousand livres. It seems like a great deal, but how long will it last? I remember when that much money would have kept an aristocrat in pheasant and champagne for three years. Today it won’t keep us in fowl and bitter wine for three months.
Saturday, October 4, evening.
At Fanny’s this evening. She’s ill, having succumbed to the vapours brought on by her grief over Marie, I believe—so little success has she had in her constant efforts to get her daughter out of prison. “Can’t you do something?” she pleaded, breaking down.
What more can I do? I’ve already made several attempts to help Marie, all without success.
“What about that criminal friend of yours?” Fanny persisted. “I bet he could do something.”
“Criminal friend?” I grinned. “Which one?”
October 6.
Deputy Barras pared his fingernails with a penknife as he listened to my appeal. Tall, baby-faced Citoyen Botot, now his secretary, sat by the window taking notes.
After I finished reading my petition, Deputy Barras looked up at me and said, “You sang beautifully at Madame Tallien’s last night. You have an unusual voice. Innocent, yet suggestive.” He was wearing a double-breasted coat of striped pink silk. His hair was powdered and gathered at the back into a black silk bag.
“You flatter me. …” I felt ill at ease. I had conversed with Deputy Barras on a number of occasions—at the theatre, salons, in my own home—but always in the company of friends. He coquetted with me (as is his way with women), yet even so, I feared I was making an imposition asking a favour. I was relieved he’d so warmly agreed to hear my appeal.
“And you are surprisingly accomplished at billiards,” he said. “You won three games off Tallien, I noticed.”
“Our friend Tallien excels at many things,” I said, “but billiards is not one of them. I do not believe it just to surmise that I have any ability at the game.”
“Yet you won against Citoyen Rosin as well. You know him, I gather?”
I nodded. I’d met Citoyen Rosin some time ago, at a Freemason meeting. A créole banker of extraordinary means, he’d managed to get his wealth out of Saint-Domingue before it collapsed.
“And his Swiss banker-friend Perré—the man with the burn on his face?”
I nodded. Although disfigured, Perré was particularly charming, I found.
Deputy Barras adjusted his gold-rimmed lorgnon, examined the document before him. “With respect to your cousin … Françoise-Marie, Citoyenne Beauharnais—” He shrugged.
“Can nothing be done?”
He made an exasperated gesture. “You must understand: governments come and governments go, but the bureaucracy stays the same. No matter who is in charge there are papers, review boards, committees, procedures. It’s an obsession in this country.” He cleared his throat, squinted at the paper again. “I see here that her husband, François Beauharnais, Marquis, is an émigré, an officer in the Prince of Condé’s army. Wounded in the Vendée,” he added absently, reading.
François—wounded? In the Vendée? I longed for details, but I dared not ask, dared not reveal my concern. “Perhaps you recall meeting her,” I said, “at my salon on Rue Saint-Dominique.”
Deputy Barras put his fingers to his chin, a posture that displayed to advantage the fine point lace of his shirtsleeve ruffle. “But as the wife of an émigré, and one who has taken up arms against us—”
“Marie divorced her husband some time ago,” I protested. I glanced over at Citoyen Botot, intent on his notes.
“Many aristocratic wives divorce their émigré husbands in order to save their fortunes,” Deputy Barras said, “and their empty heads. It means little, I’m afraid.”
“My cousin is a Republican, she belonged to a number of the revolutionary clubs. She and her husband separated for this reason,” I persisted.
Deputy Barras sighed. “I will do what I can,” he said. He nodded to Botot, who rose and left the room.
“How can I thank you?” I asked. I clutched my silk bag. I had come prepared to pay, but I could not offer much.
“As a matter of fact, there is something you could do for me,” Deputy Barras said, removing his lorgnon. “I’m involved in a number of fairly large … undertakings, I suppose you’d call them. I have need of bankers with a flair for risk, shall I say? Citoyens Rosin and Perré have been recommended, but of course, without an introduction, a recommendation …”
“I’d be delighted to arrange something,” I said, rising. “An evening at my home?”
He took my hand with exaggerated delicacy. “Will I have the pleasure of your company at my salon tonight?” he asked.
I answered him with a bow, honoured.
“On condition you join me in a game of billiards,” he said.
“Perhaps we should place a wager on it,” I said.
“I take it you intend to win.”
“Always.”
“You wicked lady.”
“Quite,” I said, smiling.
As I left I paused to have a word with Citoyen Botot. “Is there any hope?” I whispered.
Startled, Citoyen Botot looked up from the piles of papers covering his desk. “Citoyenne Marie Beauharnais will be released tomorrow—at eleven in the morning,” he said, lisping only slightly.
October 29.
I encountered Citoyen Fouché at Deputy Barras’s salon. “What brings you into these circles?” I asked. He was wearing a mismatched, stained, and ill-fitting ensemble, in spite of the elegance of the gathering. The ribbons on his knee-breeches had come untied.
“I could ask the same of you, Citoyenne Beauharnais,” he said. “Although a woman who so willingly listens is always welcome among men of power.”
“You are drôle, Citoyen. You evade my question.” “Are you trustworthy?”
“You who know everything about me, ask if I am trustworthy?”
“Last night two deputies were roused from their beds to go to the Temple. Perhaps you know this already.”
I shook my head. “Why?” The Temple was the prison in which the King’s orphan children were being held—Madame Royale and the Boy were there.
Citoyen Fouché looked over his shoulder. “There is a rumour that the Boy—’King’ according to the treacherous among us—is no longer there.”
“Was he there?”
“There was, indeed, a boy there. But was he the King’s son? That is not certain.”
“But if the Boy is not in the Temple—where is he?” A child of nine, the trump card of nations. So much depending on so small a head.
Citoyen Fouché shrugged. “You tell me. The Royalists want him alive. The Jacobins want him dead. And whoever holds the Boy, holds power over them both.”
I saw Deputy Barras coming toward us. I motioned to Citoyen Fouché to be silent.
“So I ask myself,” Citoyen Fouché went on, ignoring my caution, “who might want that much power? Who might that be?”
Tuesday, November 11.
Mobs in the streets. Deputy Carrier, President of the Jacobin Club, the executioner of thousands, has been arrested for “excessiveness” in the line of duty. The Gilded Youths are howling for his head. Restrained from tearing him limb from limb, they set upon the Jacobin Club.
Then Thérèse arrived to close it down.
Thérèse. She took the key to the club herself, fearless of the brawling men, of the violence in their hearts. Thérèse, slipping the key to the Jacobin Club into her bodice, closed the door on history.
“Were you not frightened?” I asked her, astonished. I was reading aloud a report in a news-sheet: “Such a woman as that would be capable of shutting the gates of Hell,” a journalist had written.
“I will tell you my secret, Rose,” She put her hands to her belly. “God walks wi
th me. I am with child.” She burst into tears.
November 14, late afternoon.
Thérèse and I stood at the fortuneteller’s door for a time, yelling through the delivery slot. There was a chill wind.
“I do not tell fortunes any more!” Citoyenne Lenormand insisted. She refused to open the door. During the Terror she’d been imprisoned for foretelling the death of Robespierre. Ever since she’s been reclusive. She would not allow us in.
“But it’s me, Thérèse Cabarrus de Fontenoy—I am the one who got you released!” Thérèse cried out.
Finally, the doors opened. Citoyenne Lenormand was a small woman, younger than I imagined, with small dark eyes, quite deep-sunk, under a dirty lace cap.
“I have seen you before,” she said to Thérèse. She paused. “Dressed as Liberty … when the Luxembourg prisoners were set free.”
“You have a good memory.” Thérèse untangled her hat strings.
“You have an unforgettable face,” the soothsayer said. After civilités, Lenormand instructed Thérèse to sprinkle water over a looking glass placed on a table laid with three covers. “You are about to make an important decision,” she said, examining the glass. “It is destined that the union be made. You know of whom I speak?”
Thérèse nodded. Her look was resigned.
“Your path is not an easy one. To your credit, much good will come of this alliance—but you will be the one to pay the price.”
Thérèse made a face. “I know.”
“You are gifted with vision.”
“Cursed.”
“Yes,” Citoyenne Lenormand said. “It isa curse.” She turned to me: “I believe I have foretold for you before.”
“When I was in the Carmes, a few of us contrived to send you information, from which you deduced our futures.”
“Yes. And you area widow now.”
I nodded.
“I also predicted that you would remarry, I recall, and that your second husband would be an extraordinary man, known throughout the world.”
“That part hasn’t come true.” I smiled.
“You make light, yet your heart is heavy. Ask me what you wish to know.""Tell her more about this extraordinary man,” Thérèse suggested, grinning at me mischievously.
Citoyenne Lenormand laid out some cards. After a long silence she said, “He will be younger than you. Brilliant, yes. A military man—a general, likely.”
Thérèse winked. “I wonder who that might be?”
On the way back to Rue de l’Université, Thérèse lectured me. “General Hoche is a rising star—he will do great things.” We were in her new red carriage. A gang of children, street urchins, were chasing after us.
“It is true,” I said. A miracle worker, people were saying; a genius of war, a genius of peace.
“What I am saying is that he is your rising star—your extraordinary man.”
I groaned.
“Give me your hand, Rose,” she demanded.
“Tallita—you are a Gypsy,” I complained. “Confess. A Gypsy queen.”
Thérèse smiled, then grew serious. She traced the lines in my palm. “Citoyenne Lenormand is right. You will marry a general.”
“General Hoche is already married.” I pulled my hand away.
“Soldiers get married and divorce once a year, to suit their newest fancy.”
“It is not as simple as that. Lazare cares for his wife—I believe he loves her.”
“You would be more beneficial to him. You could help him advance in his career.”
“Lazare doesn’t need my help.”
Thérèse made a noise from her throat—an expression of impatience. “May I be frank with you, Rose?”
“Are you ever not frank with me?” I smiled.
“You are not getting younger. Your children are charming, true, a credit to you in every way—but in need of an education. Sooner than you think, your daughter will be in need of a dowry, your son a position. This will cost, cost a great deal. It is them you must think of.”
“You talk as if there were good prospects everywhere.”
“What of Marquis de Caulaincourt? At the Thélusson Ball I saw him following you everywhere, drooling on your shoulder.”
“He’s been married for two decades, he has eight children, he’s almost sixty—”
“He’s rich and he dotes on you.” Thérèse pulled the fur blanket over her knees.
“Yes, Maman,” I said. Thérèse made a playful face. “But what about you?” I asked, changing the subject. “Did you find out what you wanted?”
Thérèse sighed. “I have known since the moment I met Tallien that I was destined to marry him, destined to help others through him—” She paused, looked out the window. We were coming to the river. The spires of Notre-Dame—the “Temple of Reason” now—stood bold and beautiful against the sky. “Destined to soften the rule of his fist,” she said softly.
“Tallita!” I was shocked by her words.
“Forgive me. I know you care for him.”
“And you don’t?” Did she not call Tallien her “Lion Amoureux"?
“There are things about him I find distasteful.”
I smiled. “You were raised to be a princess,” I said. And certainly, Tallien was no prince.
“I was raised to be a courtesan, but we need not get into that. No—I must confess that I entertain the affections of our friend for a number of reasons, but love is not one of them. Not even passion, which is often mistaken for love. Rather, I feel a bond of obligation toward him. He saved my life and the lives of many of my family and friends. And he has suffered as a result.” She paused. “I shouldn’t be telling you these things.” She let down the glass, in spite of the cold, put it back up again.
“You’ll not marry him then?”
Thérèse sat back, her eyes brimming with tears. “No,” she said. “I will marry him.”
“I don’t—”
“Have you ever had the feeling you were part of a larger plan?” she asked, interrupting.
I wondered about that. The fact that I was a widow now, that this had been foretold—did that mean that my marriage to Alexandre had been part of a larger plan? Was Alexandre’s untimely death meant to be?
The coach pulled into the courtyard of my hôtel on Rue de l’Université. “Do you believe this to be so with Tallien?” I asked. I found the idea of destiny both comforting and terrifying.
“When Tallien and I were together in Bordeaux, each night, as I went to bed with him, I liked to think of the lives I had persuaded him to spare that day. In this way I discovered the purpose of my existence.”
I did not know what to say. Thérèse was so young, such a carefree soul—and yet, there was this, always this, this terrible responsibility she had taken on. Not a day went by that she wasn’t pleading for a life. It was a commitment we shared—our religion, some said. “Ladies of mercy,” Tallien called us.
“Thérèse—you are an angel,” I said, taking up my basket.
The footman opened the door, let down the metal step.
Thérèse touched my shoulder. I turned to look at her. “Will you be godmother?” she asked.
“Me?”
She nodded, her cheeks glistening.
“I would be honoured,” I said.
November 10, 1794—Cherbourg
Rose,
We are in the process of moving to new headquarters in Rennes. I will be coming to Paris to arrange for supplies. The only consolation in this wretched business is that I will once again hold you in my arms.
Your soldier, Lazare
Sunday, November 16.
Lazare!
Monday.
Lazare brings news of Eugène. Carefully I put forward questions. I do not want to nag. “You’re not working him too hard? He’s not in any danger? Ishe eating? Are you watching over him?” I have been sleepless with concern. Rennes is in the heart of the Vendée region. I’d heard stories of a civil war there—peasants and aristocrats
united against the Republicans. I’d been happier when Eugène was in Cherbourg, facing the English. I didn’t want him fighting Frenchmen. It wouldn’t be right.
Lazare laughed, lacing up his breeches. “Of course I’m working him hard. Of course he’s in danger. It’s the army!” “He’s only a boy!”
“Do you not see that I feel pride in him? A father’s tender care?”
This silenced me. A father ‘stender care?
Lazare held out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I have come to love your son, Rose,” he confessed, “to regard him as my own.”
November 19.
Lazare spends his days in meetings with the Committee of Public Safety; nights he spends with me. I take the time I am allowed greedily, my hunger overwhelming.
November 20.
Lazare is gone. He was here for only three days—three whirlwind days of passion and tears. Will I ever grow accustomed to such parting?
November 19, 1794—Rennes
Chère Maman,
We got to Rennes—on foot! My boots are worn through. (I’ve enclosed a tracing of my foot and the measure of my leg, for a new pair.) Everyone has lice. But at least I haven’t got scabies. We put up in the woods. Yesterday the artilleryman was murdered in town. We are regarded as the enemy!
A thousand kisses, your son Eugène
November 20.
An associate of Citoyen Dunnkirk is sailing for America. There is hope of getting through to Mother, so I have spent the day writing and rewriting a letter, writing and rewriting what I must tell her, what she must, in any case, know: that I am a widow, that Hortense and Eugène are without a father, that we are all of us without any means of support.
I am so deeply in debt I know not where to turn. What are my choices?
November 28, 1794—Rennes
Rose,
My troops are bored—they long for battle. They fail to see glory in an olive branch. Swords are more heroic, I grant you.
The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B. Page 31
