The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B.

by Sandra Gulland

  His coach is new, a garish yellow with gold trim, very showy, in bad taste. Inside was no different—the seats were covered in gold brocade, the shades tasselled with pink silk.

  We took off at a terrific pace, the coach careening over the bumps and around the corners at a frightful speed. I was momentarily overcome by paralysis. Terror had rendered me speechless. I gripped the sides to steady myself. Finally I summoned the strength to cry out, “Stop!”

  General Buonaparte signalled his driver and the coach came to a sudden halt. I fell forward onto the facing seat. I began to laugh.

  “We are late.” He pulled out his timepiece again. “What is it you want?”

  I could not speak for the laughter that had gripped me. Tears ran down my cheeks. Buonaparte regarded me with a puzzled expression. “Too fast?”

  I burst into laughter again, nodded through my tears.

  Hesitantly, he smiled, a bit unsure. He signalled the driver to go forward again, this time at a more civilized pace. By degrees my laughter came under control. I took several deep breaths. An evening with General Buonaparte—it was not as I had imagined.

  It was an enjoyable performance, I thought, yet on the way home General Buonaparte expressed discontent. “The French can’t sing, their music has no melody. It grates on the ear. You sing for me.”

  “Here?” We were at the intersection of Rue de Richelieu and Rue Neuve des Petits Champs.

  “This is the trouble with the French. They think they cannot sing anywhere, at any time.” He launched into an aria I was unfamiliar with. A chimney-sweep turned to stare. “Now you,” he commanded.

  “I am not a singer.”

  “Yet you have a lovely speaking voice.”

  He would not be refused. Quietly, I sang a short refrain from Mozart.

  He regarded me seriously. “Not bad. What’s your name?”

  “You know my name.”

  “Your full name.”

  “Marie-Josephe-Rose.”

  “Joseph is your father’s name?”

  “Was.”

  “Was he a good man?”

  I smiled. Hardly. “A very good man.”

  “Very well, I shall call you Josephine, after the heroine in Le Sourd. Have you seen it?”

  “My name is Rose.”

  “You are mistaken.”

  December 26.

  “Why do you insist on calling me Josephine?” Buonaparte and I had just come from Barras’s salon and were on our way to the theatre, to a performance of a work by Molière.

  “Do you not find it an attractive name?”

  “I am told this is your way with a woman. First you ask her to sing, then you give her a new name.”

  “You have been talking to your friend Thérèse,” he said, disgruntled.

  “You can keep no secrets from me, Buonaparte.”

  December 29.

  “What is it you do all the time?” Thérèse demanded. “You were almost an hour yesterday in the garden.”

  “We just talk.” It was true—driving in the Bois de Boulogne, walking along the quay, sitting in my garden, or in his.

  “Just talk? Whatever about?”

  Music, science, religion … there was little that did not interest him, little that escaped his notice.

  “You know what people are saying, that he is mad for you.”

  “We are friends.”

  “No doubt,” Thérèse said, smiling capriciously.

  December 30.

  It was approaching noon when Thérèse’s red coach pulled into my courtyard. “Maybe you shouldn’t come to La Chaumière tonight,” she said, letting down the glass.

  “But I must—it’s arranged. Buonaparte is coming for me at nine.”

  “Lazare is back. He will be there tonight.”

  Lazare?

  “I thought you should be warned.”

  Buonaparte and I arrived at La Chaumière shortly before ten. I was relieved that Lazare was not yet there. Even so, I could not be at my ease.

  It wasn’t until midnight that Lazare arrived, in uniform, in the company of several aides. He saw me and turned away. I took Buonaparte’s arm and asked if we might go into the garden for a moment.

  “But it’s freezing.”

  “Only for a little air.”

  After a few moments I was able to compose myself. I had to address Lazare, I knew, had to find the courage to address him. Upon returning to the drawing room, Buonaparte was accosted by Madame de Crény and Fortunée Hamelin, demanding that he read their palms, a magical art for which he claimed to have some talent.

  Lazare was standing nearby, by the fire, watching. “How good to see you in Paris,” I said, congratulating him on his recent promotion. He regarded me with cold dignity—an expression so chilling I was relieved when Buonaparte joined us.

  “And you, General Hoche?” Buonaparte demanded. Lazare put forth his hand. Buonaparte examined it and grinned. “General, you will die young—and in your bed,” he said.*

  “Alexandre the Great died in his bed, did he not?” I took Buonaparte’s arm. “I believe Thérèse wants us in the game room,” I said, pulling him away. “That was unnecessary,” I hissed.

  Buonaparte looked at me. “Do you think me blind?”

  I pulled my shawl around my shoulders. “Take me home, Buonaparte,” I told him. “I feel quite ill.”

  It seemed a very long ride back to Chantereine. Buonaparte and I sat silently. “How are you feeling?” he asked as we turned onto Rue Mont-Martre.

  “I lied about being unwell,” I said.

  “I was curious to see how far you would take the charade.”

  “That’s not kind.”

  “I never said I was a kind man.” He paused. “You have an attachment for General Hoche.”

  I arranged the fur coverlet about my knees. I was thankful for the dark. “I knew him in prison.”

  “And now?”

  “And now General Hoche has a family of his own. Would you care to come in?” I asked as we pulled into my courtyard.

  “Would you care to have me?”

  I thought for a moment. “Yes,” I said. I did not speak untruly. I felt overwhelmed by a feeling of sadness, a feeling that I was too much alone in this life. The cold look in Lazare’s eyes had disturbed me in a way no words ever could.

  Buonaparte stayed for over an hour. I drank several glasses of Chambertin. Before he left he said, “I would like permission to kiss you.” It seemed a harmless request.

  His touch was tentative, unsure, and then urgent. I pulled away. Hewalked around the room at a vigorous pace.

  “Buonaparte?” His manner alarmed me.

  Apparently he did not hear, for he did not answer. Then he smiled, a curious smile, I thought, as if he held a great secret. He kissed my hand and was gone.

  January 7, 1796.

  “Are you lovers?” Thérèse demanded, pulling a robe on over her head. She was trying on a variety of ensembles. In two weeks there is going to be a feast at the Luxembourg Palace in honour of the third anniversary of the death of the King and Thérèse was planning her toilette. Robes, petticoats and shawls were strewn all about the room.

  “Not in the sense you mean.” I held up a shawl for her to consider, a luxurious white lace Barras had given her.

  “What other sense is there?” She laughed.

  “He intrigues me.” General Napoleone Buonaparte was like a tropical day—at one moment exuberant, at the next quiet and moody. He did not inspire respect; rather, he commanded it. I never knew what to expect of him.

  “Barras is intent on you marrying him,” Thérèse said.

  “I don’t belong to Barras.”

  “We all belong to Director Barras, my dear.” She fastened the pearl buttons on her sleeve. “So what would you answer if Buonaparte proposed?”

  I sighed, sat down. “Marry Buonaparte?”

  “I think our friend the Director is right. I think you should consider. How old is Buonaparte—twenty-six? Re
member what Lenormand predicted—that you would marry a brilliant military man, someone younger than you?”

  “Hortense weeps at even the thought of me getting married again,” I said.

  “Has she even met Buonaparte? Why not bring her to the fête at the Palace? She is almost thirteen—it’s time she started coming out into society.”

  Saturday, January 9.

  At first Hortense was thrilled at the news that we were going to a formal dinner, especially when I showed her the dress Lannoy was making for her.

  “It’s at the Palace,” I said, thinking she would be impressed.

  “The Luxembourg?”

  I nodded. “Director Barras is hosting it.”

  “We’re going to a reception given by Director Barras?” She had a scornful expression on her face. “But, Maman, it was men like him who murdered father!”

  “Where did you hear such a thing!” Ever since Hortense had started school, she’d begun to have “notions.” I’d intended to talk to Madame Campan about it, but withheld, sensing that it was possibly Madame Campan who was the cause. “Were it not for the help of Director Barras, we would never have succeeded in getting back your father’s properties,” I lectured her. “You owe it to be kind to a man who has done so much to help us.”

  Finally, she relented; she would go. “But I refuse to speak to criminals and rogues. After all, I’m a Royalist.”

  I slapped her. We both burst into tears.

  January 21, midnight.

  I’m exhausted. The gala dinner celebration at the Luxembourg Palace was a tremendous success, but it was hardly enjoyable for me. Buonaparte was particularly intense, following my every move. He ate quickly, often with his hands. Hortense sat between us, sullenly refusing to speak.

  All the way home Hortense was silent. At last, in bedclothes, she cried out, sobbing, “If you marry that horrid little man, I will never speak to you again!”

  I took her in my arms. “I won’t,” I told her. “I promise.”

  I promise.

  In which I must decide

  Friday, January 22, 1796.

  Buonaparte has made a proposal of marriage. I told him I would consider.

  “For how long?” He began pacing the room.

  “I will give you an answer in two weeks.”

  “One week.”

  “Then the answer will be no.”

  He smiled. “You are stronger than you look, Josephine. I like that in a woman.”

  “My name is Rose.”

  Saturday, January 23.

  Eugène stood at attention when General Buonaparte came to call. As for Hortense, she turned a cold shoulder. Buonaparte tried his best to charm her, but with little success. For most of the evening Hortense stayed in her room, refusing to come down.

  “Try not to be hurtful,” I suggested to him.

  “I was only teasing.” He had accused Hortense of being a bigot because she was preparing to be confirmed.

  “She’s not a child one can tease. She takes everything seriously.”

  “Then we shall get along.”

  January 29, 6:00 p.m.

  “But Thérèse, I am not enamored.” Thérèse and I were walking along the quay. It was cold but invigorating, the water grey.

  “You care for him as a friend,” she said. “He cares for you. Is that not more important?”

  “You do not credit love?”

  Thérèse scoffed. “Tallien loved me—and all I got were bruises.”

  “He knows he wronged you.” I had been waiting for an opportunity to talk to her about Tallien.

  “You’ve seen him?”

  I nodded. “He has changed.”

  She said nothing.

  “He worships you, Thérèse,” I persisted. “And he is such a loving father.”

  She turned on me. “Don’t you know how it pains me?” she cried, her eyes full of emotion. “A marriage can survive without passion, Rose, but not without respect. Tell him I’m sorry, but I can’t—I just can’t. ”

  January 30.

  “She expresses regret.” I tried to soften the news. Tallien had looked so hopeful when I arrived. “She cares for you.” This was true.

  “But—?”

  I shook my head.

  I stayed for a time. We played piquet, like in the days of our youth, days before the Terror, days that seem so far away. I talked to him of General Buonaparte, of my doubts and confusion.

  “He’s an ambitious man,” Tallien said. “He will rise. Of that there can be no doubt.”

  “So Barras says.”

  “He cares for you? And the children?”

  “Yes.” Indeed, he seemed to like Hortense and Eugène. “I believe he would be a good father to them.”

  “And, as a general, a help to your son’s military career, no doubt.”

  “True.” That was an important factor.

  “Yet you are unsure?”

  “We are not lovers.”

  “That’s not difficult to resolve.”

  “It is not always easy for a woman.”

  “Is fidelity an issue? Perhaps …”

  I shrugged. It was customary for married men and women to take lovers—but did I want to live like that?

  “I advise you to accept,” Tallien said. “It is a gamble—but then …” He groaned as I displayed my cards. “But then you have always had a talent for winning games of chance.”

  January 31, 1796—Hôtel de Croisoeuil, Croissy

  Dear Citoyenne Madame Beauharnais,

  Come quickly—Mother is not well.

  Citoyenne Madame Lucie Hosten de Croisoeuil

  February 1, 1796—Hôtel de Croisoeuil, Croissy

  Dear Citoyenne Madame Beauharnais,

  Forgive me for alarming you. Mother is stronger today.

  Citoyenne Madame Lucie Hosten de Croisoeuil

  Tuesday, February 2—Croissy.

  It was just past noon when my coachman put me down in front of Hôtel de Croisoeuil. Lucie came to the foyer with an infant in her arms. “Madame Beauharnais!” She greeted me most sincerely. “Did you get my second note?” she asked. From somewhere I heard a child laugh.

  “How is your mother?” I asked after complimenting her on the birth of her second child—another boy. “What does the doctor say?”

  We were interrupted by a scream—a child’s. Lucie looked up the stairs. “Quiet!” she yelled. She turned back to me with an angelic expression. “We’ve moved her downstairs,” she said, distracted by the now-howling infant in her arms.

  It was dark in the music room; the drapes were drawn, the windowsclosed. The smell was more touch than sense, a thickening of the air. Gently, I pulled the bedcurtains back. Aimée’s eyes were open.

  “Aimée.” I took her hand, sat by her side. I stroked her damp forehead, studied her face. I did not like what I saw.

  “You came.” Her voice was husky, hoarse.

  “Lucie wrote to me.”

  “She didn’t need to.”

  “Does talking hurt?”

  “I’m so tired.”

  “I’ll rub your feet. Would you like that?”

  She nodded. “Tell me news. How is everyone?”

  “I am considering an offer of marriage.”

  “Lazare?”

  I shook my head no. “General Buonaparte.”

  “The man in the journals?”

  I nodded.

  “Isn’t he Italian, Rose? Italians are so unclean.”

  “He’s Corsican.”

  “That’s even worse.”

  “I wish you could meet him.” I longed to tell her of the confusion in my heart, but already she was becoming drowsy, her eyelids fluttering, closing. I sat back down beside her, took her hand. You can’t leave me like this, Aimée, I thought. I need you.

  Lucie came into the room, a chamber-pot in her hand. I stood up. “She sleeps more and more,” Lucie said.

  “It will heal her.”

  “Yes.” But neither of us beli
eved this to be so. I took up my basket, my hat. At the door, I turned, looked back. Lucie—so young, so fresh—was standing at the foot of her mother’s bed with a resigned look on her face.

  “Give her my love,” I said. Pray for her soul.

  February 3.

  “I’ve had a proposal of marriage,” I told Fanny. I was at her hôtel on Rue de Tournon, arranging for a delivery of wood.

  “You would throw away your liberty?” She looked shocked.

  “Liberty to do without.” Liberty to sleep alone. “Eugène and Hortense need a father.”

  “Is it that Corsican I met at your salon?”

  “You disapprove?”

  “He tells a good ghost story. I rather liked him.”

  “Most people don’t.”

  “Let them hang. I know the aristocratic matrons of Saint-Germain will stick their noses up over a man with a name they can’t pronounce, but who cares about them any more?”

  “What will Aunt Désirée think?”

  “You haven’t told her?”

  “I haven’t the courage.”

  “She wants you to marry.” “But a Corsican?”

  Fanny laughed. “She’d get used to it. Compared to Marie marrying a mulatto, it might even look good. Do you love him?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  February 4.

  General Schérer, Commander of the Army of Italy, has resigned.

  “Why?” I asked, alarmed. Any mention of the Army of Italy brought on an attack of nerves in me.

  Buonaparte and I were in his horrible coach, in the Bois de Boulogne. I had persuaded him that in order for me to enjoy the ride, it must be taken at less than full speed, and somewhat reluctantly he had ordered his driver to leave off on the whip.

  “Director Carnot sent him my plans for the campaign in Italy,” Buonaparte said. “It would appear that General Schérer didn’t care for them. Hesaid only the idiot who thought them up would be able to make it work.”

  “So he resigned? Just like that?”

  “Moved over, let’s say.”

  “For you?”