The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B.

by Sandra Gulland

  “We shall see. …”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I must have an answer. Soon.”

  February 6.

  I felt restless this morning. I decided to go for a drive. On an impulse I asked my driver to take me out to the field where Alexandre was buried.

  It looked different from before. Here and there, in patches, grass had grown in, now brown from the frost. The wind blew over the hard lumps of earth. The crazy woman was there, again, in spite of the cold.

  I headed out into the field, out to the oak tree in the middle. I leaned my head against the gnarled trunk. How old was this tree? I wondered.

  I thought of my life, of the decisions before me. I thought of Hortense, of Eugène. I would turn thirty-three this summer. How many offers of marriage would there be?

  “The children must have a father,” I said out loud. Could Alexandre hear me? “I cannot manage on my own!”

  The crazy woman turned her head toward me, grinned.

  I went to her. She was crouched in the dirt. I stooped down beside her. I was surprised to see how young she was, younger than myself. Her clothes were in rags, filthy with excrement. She was shivering.

  “You will catch your death out here. Do you have a home?” I asked. “Somewhere you can go?”

  “Caesar is coming,” she said.

  “The Roman?”

  “He said he would meet me here.”

  “You should be inside.” Her skin was grey from the cold.

  “I am waiting.”

  I slipped my cloak over her shoulders. “He told me you were to gohome,” I lied.

  “He told you that?”

  I hesitated. “He told me to give you this.” I slipped my little bag of coins into her hand.

  She fingered the bag. She looked up at me. Her eyes were deep-set, a dark blue—Alexandre’s eyes. Shaken, I turned away.

  Sunday, February 7.

  Another sleepless night. The wind blows against the shutters. I have come to my writing desk by the fire, pulling a patchwork counterpane around my knees. Tomorrow I’m to give Buonaparte my answer. I don’t know what it will be.

  I get out my cards, hidden away since the Carmes. I feel their worn surfaces, feel the sadness in them still. With fear, I lay them out. At the centre, Conflict. To the future, Union. And the controlling card: Fate.

  February 8.

  I have given Buonaparte my answer.

  * Bernadine Eugénie Désirée Clary would later marry Bernadotte, who became crown prince of Sweden—making Désirée Crown Princess. Ironically, their son, Oscar I of Sweden, would marry one of Rose‘s granddaughters.

  In which I have cause to regret

  February 9, 1796.

  Eugène took the news philosophically. In fact, I think he was pleased. Hortense, however, was inconsolable. I have betrayed her, she said. She stayed in her room, refusing to eat.

  February 18.

  The banns will be published tomorrow morning. “Have you told anyone?” I asked Buonaparte. “Have you told your family?”

  Buonaparte’s enormous family: his widowed mother Madame Letizia (whom he worships), his older brother Giuseppe (whom he loves), Lucciano (who shows such promise), Luigi (whom he regards as his son), his sisters (“the three Marias”) Maria-Anna, Maria-Paola and Maria-Anunziata, the “baby” Girolamo—twelve now. All of them in Buonaparte’s care, all of them needy.

  “I’ve only informed Giuseppe,” he said. We were sitting by the fire eating preserved cherries in thick fresh cream. “I wrote him two weeks ago.”

  Two weeks ago? I hadn’t given Buonaparte my answer two weeks ago. “And what was his reponse?” I asked.

  “He’s furious. He said he should have been consulted, since he’s the eldest. He insists I honour my commitment to marry his wife’s sister.”

  “The girl you were engaged to last summer?”

  “And now Giuseppe has written Mother.”

  “And?”

  “And now she demands I break it off.”

  “Is this not going to be a problem, Buonaparte? Perhaps we should—”

  “No!” he said angrily. “I am my own master.”

  February 19.

  Buonaparte has been talking to Barras, Barras has been talking to Thérèse, Thérèse has been talking to me. In this way I have learned that Buonaparte’s brother Giuseppe has threatened Buonaparte with a lawsuit for not marrying his sister-in-law!*

  “Corsicans spend half their life in court,” Thérèse said when I told her. “It’s their favourite sport. Ever heard of a vendetta?”

  “What am I getting into?”

  “Don’t worry, Rose. You could charm a snake.”

  “But Corsican in-laws?”

  Thérèse made a doubtful face. “Maybe not.”

  February 20.

  I’ve been to see Citoyen Calmelet, my family advisor, regarding my baptism certificate, which is required for the marriage licence. “I think you are doing the right thing,” he told me.

  “Not many say so.” General Aubert-Dubayet, the Minister of War, had had the audacity to tell me I’d be making a fool of myself if I married Buonaparte. Even Grace Elliott had asked how I could consider marrying a man with such a terrible name.

  Citoyen Calmelet nodded. “General Buonaparte is not one to stand on ceremony. This offends some people. But he shows promise and he seems to care for you sincerely. One can see it in his eyes.”

  “Will you come to the ceremony, be one of my witnesses?”

  “I’d be honoured. When is it?”

  Seventeen days.

  Monday, February 22.

  It was almost noon when I heard the sound of a horse trotting up the laneway. I looked out to see Lazare dismounting from a splendid grey. Hehanded the reins and his riding crop to my coachman.

  Quickly I went to my mirror, rubbed some colour into my cheeks.

  Agathe came into my wardrobe. “General Hoche is here to see you.”

  “Yes, I saw him.” I removed my apron. I had intended to work in the garden and the simple muslin gown I was wearing was not flattering.

  “Shall I tell him that you will receive him?”

  I thought for a moment. Should I? No. “Tell him I am indisposed.”

  A few moments later I heard a commotion in the hall. I looked up. Lazare was standing in the door. “I want my letters back,” he said.

  I scoffed. “What letters! I’ve not had a single letter from you since August.” I pulled my shawl around my shoulders. “Since you rescued Madame de Pout-Bellan’s husband.”

  “Madame de Pout-Bellan? What does she have to do with this?”

  “It is said that you love her.”

  Lazare waved his hand in a gesture of impatience. “Madame de Pout-Bellan? There is nothing …! Nothing, at least, to compare with the way you and Vanakre—”

  “Vanakre? Your footman?”

  “You need not take that aristocratic tone. Vanakre is my aide-de-camp now.”

  “That’s not the point. You thought I’d had an amourette with Vanakre? ”

  “I have proof!”

  “It would amuse me to see such proof, General Hoche.”

  Lazare began to pace. “And now you with this”—he cursed, banged his fist on the side-table—"this little police general! How could you!”

  “Do not speak of General Buonaparte in that way.”

  “Did you know that only last year he was transferred to an infantry brigade under my orders, but he refused, pretending to be sick. Did you know the Committee had him demoted for insubordination? And that he offered his services to the Turks! He’s an opportunist! He can’t be trusted. He only wants the promotion Barras has offered him.”

  “It has nothing to do with Barras!” I put my hands to my ears.

  Lazare grabbed my hands, pulled them away. “Buonaparte’s reward for marrying you is the Army of Italy. It is that he wants—not you.”

  “Whosoever is appointed to command the Army of Italy w
ill be appointed on the basis of merit.” I was trembling. “All the directors must approve it—as you well know. In point of fact, it would appear to be Director Carnot who is promoting General Buonaparte.”

  “Tell me you love him,” Lazare demanded.

  “I have given him my word.”

  He stared at me for a long moment. “That’s it?”

  I turned to the window, took a breath. “I understand congratulations are in order. You are a father, I am told.”

  “I am. A girl.” There was pride in his voice.

  I turned to him. “I was never unfaithful to you,” I said.

  He took my hand. “You’re trembling. Do I frighten you?”

  “Don’t make me cry, Lazare.” I pulled my hand away. His touch was gentle. He had always been so very gentle. “Please go.”

  At the door he turned. “It is true that I have fallen in love with another woman,” he said. “My wife.”

  “You always did love her.”

  He bowed and was gone. Shortly after I heard the sound of his horse’s hoofs cantering up the drive.

  I sat for a time by the window, looking out at the grey winter day. Agathe asked if there was anything I wanted.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  Later.

  I was digging in the garden when a message was delivered. It was a note from Citoyen Dunnkirk: “Come see me.”

  Was it Mother? Immediately I called for my coach, arriving at Emmery’s office shortly before five.

  “I am glad you could come so promptly. There is something I think you should know. Your fiancé has been to see me.” It was cold. He was sniffling, as usual.

  “General Buonaparte?”

  “Yes. This morning.”

  “But why?”

  “He was inquiring into your financial affairs.”

  “I have no secrets! He didn’t need to ask you.”

  Citoyen Dunnkirk shrugged.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “The truth.” He blew his nose on a dirty blue kerchief.

  “And …?” I didn’t know who I was angrier with: Buonaparte or Citoyen Dunnkirk.

  “He thought you were wealthier than you are.”

  I sat for a moment in silence.

  “I know it is not my place, Citoyenne, but … are you sure this is the man you should marry?”

  “I must go.” I stood, in fear of my emotions.

  That evening.

  “It’s off! “ I yelled the moment Buonaparte entered. I had not intended to explode in this way, but the words escaped before I could control myself.

  Buonaparte looked behind him. Was I addressing someone other than himself? “Josephine …?”

  “And I will not be Josephine! I am Rose.” I paced the room.

  Buonaparte threw his hat onto a chair. “Perhaps you could tell me what this is all about,” he said, “Josephine.”

  I struck out at him. He caught my wrist, hard. “I warn you never to strike me,” he said.

  Lannoy came running to the door. Gontier was behind her. “Madame?”

  “Leave us alone,” Buonaparte commanded. He was not as calm as he pretended.

  I nodded to them both. “It’s all right.”

  After they left there was a moment of silence. Outside, a horse whinnied.

  “Now, if you would be so kind as to explain?” Buonaparte jabbed at the embers with an iron.

  I sat down, clasped my hands in my lap. “I have decided to call off our engagement.”

  “That much I have gathered. Would it inconvenience you to provide a reason?"

  "You have been to see my banker.”

  “I have.”

  “You could have come to me.”

  He did not respond.

  “You have no affection for me, Buonaparte. In marrying me, you seek only promotion.” I would not look at him. “Nothing you can say can persuade me otherwise. Do not try to defend yourself.”

  “And you—are you so …?” He stood. “So free of self-interest? Can you claim that it is only for affection for me that you have consented to marry?”

  “So much the more reason to abandon this ill-fated union.”

  He left abruptly. There were tears in his eyes. I do not feel relief.

  In which we begin again, & yet again

  February 23, 1796.

  I was still in bed when Agathe informed me that General Buonaparte had arrived.

  “I heard the horse,” I said. Agathe brought me my white muslin gown. I tied a red scarf about my head and put rouge on my cheeks.

  I wasn’t looking forward to this meeting. “Stay near,” I told Agathe, slipping a shawl around my shoulders, “in case I need you.” I shivered from the cold.

  Buonaparte was waiting in the drawing room. He was standing by the window examining the bust of Voltaire. He turned to face me when I entered. I could see from his eyes that he had not slept.

  “Good afternoon,” I said.

  “Is it?” He was wearing a dark embroidered coat with a high stand-up collar.

  I took a seat to the left of the fire, gesturing for him to take the seat to the right. His boots, which he is in the habit of polishing with some obnoxious substance, threw off a strong odour. I asked Agathe to bring us coffee and toast. “And rum.”

  Buonaparte and I sat in uncomfortable silence until Agathe returned. She placed the urn and goblets on a serving table and left. “Coffee?” I asked. He refused. I poured myself coffee from the urn, added rum, cream, two heaping spoonfuls of sugar. My spoon made a scraping noise on the bottom of my cup.

  “The time has come for truth,” he said. He stood. I braced myself forrecriminations, justifications. “You have accused me of self-interest in proposing marriage to you. I will answer your charges.” He clasped his hands behind his back and then across his chest, and then back behind his back again. “In the beginning, yes, I was attracted by the advantages marriage to you would offer. I saw that you were a woman of influence, a woman who was at ease with men of power and wealth, a woman who bridged both the old world and the new. These qualities would be an asset to me, I knew. And of course there was the plum of the Army of Italy. The Army of Italy! I would have married the most lowly of the market prostitutes to gain command of the Army of Italy.”

  “You need not insult me, Buonaparte.”

  “Insult you!” He fell to his knees before me. “I intend to honour you as no other woman has been honoured!”

  “Rise!” I said, alarmed and embarrassed.

  “You must hear me!” He took the seat beside mine, grabbed my hand. “Don’t you see? I have fallen in love with you!”

  “Yet you went to see my banker!”

  “I will not deny it. It was the act of a coward.” He stood back up again. “I was seeking reasons, cause and effect, premise and proof. I was seeking escape.”

  “From what?”

  “You. From the emotion that has engulfed me.”

  I sat back in exasperation. “I dislike riddles,” I said.

  “You don’t understand! When I am with you, it is as if a curtain has been opened, and all that has gone before has been merely an overture. Is this not frightening? I have held a dead man in my arms. I have walked to the mouth of a cannon set to fire. I have faced my mother’s fury. Yet nothing is as frightening to me as the tenderness that comes over me when I look into your eyes.”

  Abruptly I stood, went to the window. Fortuné was by the garden wall, by the rosebushes there, digging at something.

  “Will you not marry me?” There was desperation in his voice.

  I came back to my seat by the fire. “You know I do not love you,” I said.

  “Yes. I know that.”

  “You know I am … older than you, that I have loved another.” Love another still. I did not say that. “I do.”

  “Yet even so, you wish to marry me?”

  “I wish to worship you.”

  “Must you be so drôle, Buonaparte?”

  “You think I
jest.”

  “Surely, you must.” I smiled.

  “Forgive me?”

  I took his hand. I had never noticed how fine his fingers were, how smooth his skin.

  “Join me for a promenade?” he asked.

  I stood. We were almost the same height. I felt he was a brother, a companion—"my spirit friend,” Mimi would have said. “I will not give up Chantereine,” I said, opening the doors onto the garden.

  “My hôtel on Rue des Capucines is more prestigious,” he said.

  “This is my first real home. It is everything to me.”

  He looked about. “After I liberate Italy, I will require a larger establishment.”

  “And when might that be, General Buonaparte?” Teasing.

  He looked at me with an amused expression. “Shortly after we are married, Josephine.”

  Wednesday, February 24.

  “I announced our betrothal to the Directors,” Buonaparte told me this evening.

  “And what was the response?”

  “Positive.” He seemed pleased, strutting around. “ Very positive.” He slapped his hands together.

  March 2.

  Buonaparte’s footman unloaded a crate of papers into my entryway, Buonaparte coming in after him. “Behold,” he said with a dramatic flourish. “The Commander of the Army of Italy.”

  “It’s official now? Were you not expecting it?”

  “One can never be entirely sure of such things.” He rummaged through the crate of papers.

  “And now?”

  Buonaparte flipped through the pages of a report.

  “And now?” I touched his arm.

  He looked at me with a distracted expression.

  “And now?”

  “And now the work begins.”

  March 8.

  Buonaparte called for me at noon. I was ready. Together we went to my lawyer’s office on the Rue Saint-Honoré. Buonaparte waited in the entry-way while my lawyer went over the marriage contract.

  “Are you familiar with this contract?” Raguideau asked when I sat down. His dusty office was cluttered with papers and legal forms. The windows looking out onto the Rue Saint-Honoré were covered with grime.

  “I am.”

  “Nevertheless, I am required by law to go over it with you.” He is a small man, yet he has an exceptionally deep voice. “Your finances will be kept separate. You will each contribute equally to the costs of maintaining a household. Even the cost of getting married will be shared between you.” He spelled out the terms: “Your husband assumes no responsibility for your debts. Other than paying you a nominal sum of fifteen hundred livres a year, you will receive nothing from this union.”