The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

  “Would you care for a dish of tea?” I said. “Sweetmeats, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you, child. I won’t keep you. I can see that my uncle is not well, and as for myself, I must be returning home as I have only recently risen from childbed.”

  Before Father and I could offer our blessings, Madame Longpré turned to me. “In the last two years I have had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of your fiancé, Chevalier Alexandre de Beauharnais, whom I assure you is the most charming young man one could ever hope to find.”

  Father spit up into his kerchief.

  I searched my mind for something to say. “A glass of wine perhaps?”

  Madame Longpré smiled at me. She stood, taking up her pink parasol. “When the chevalier does arrive, would you please be so kind as to convey to him my warmest congratulations. Inform him that it would be my greatest pleasure to tell him so personally.”

  Immediately after Madame Longpré left, Father demanded a glass of brandy.

  “Mother didn’t mention that Laure Longpré lived here,” I said.

  “I doubt that she even knows. Your mother and I are none too fond of the Girardins—and they, I must say, are none too fond of us.”

  “Madame Longpré seemed very friendly.”

  “Like a rabid fox,” Father cursed, downing the glass.

  October 23.

  Madame showed me fashion “tricks” this afternoon. Mimi and I giggled, which Madame didn’t appreciate, but we couldn’t help it, especially when she showed us the false bottoms and bosoms. She showed me how to put a small cork ball in my cheek to fill it out where I’d had a tooth pulled. Madame does this herself, on the right side. (Now I understand why she’s a little hard to understand sometimes.) She also showed me how I could glue little patches on my face to cover up my pockmarks. She gave me two small ones made of thick blue wool: one in the shape of a diamond, the other an oval. Then she showed Mimi how to tighten my corset for me by bracing her feet against the bedstead and pulling. We got me all done up with a bottom and a bosom and a tiny, tiny waist. I looked beautiful, but I couldn’t breathe and I very nearly fainted!

  October 26.

  Aunt Désirée and Monsieur de Beauharnais will be arriving tomorrow! I fear I’m going to be sick.

  In which I am introduced to my fiancé

  October 27, 1779.

  Mimi and I spent the morning in my room fussing over my make-up, my clothes and hair. Every few minutes we would go to the window. At around eleven, I heard Madame’s man-of-all-work talking loudly in the street. I looked out and saw a large woman being helped from a conveyance, but no sign of a young man—so I knew it wasn’t them.

  Then suddenly there was a woman at my door. It was my Aunt Désirée! I last saw her when I was only three or four, so I had no recollection of her, although I’d imagined her: my “beautiful Aunt Désirée,” the tall woman with golden hair who had bewitched a wealthy marquis. And now here she was—stout, cross and bossy.

  “So.” She looked me up and down with a bit of a frown—“you must be Rose.” She was wearing a red- and white-striped taffeta gown and a hat quivering with red feathers. She thrust me into a hug. I choked on the powder in her wig.

  She wanted to know where Father was. “That brother of mine—is he dead yet?” she barked.

  I opened the sash doors to Father’s room, hoping she wouldn’t detect the scent of spirits.

  “Joseph,” Aunt Désirée commanded, from the door, “you’re not to die!”

  “I’m not trying to die, Désirée,” my father said, sitting up in bed with some evidence of discomfort, made the more so by his sister’s vigorous greeting. I helped adjust the pillows behind his back. “Where’s the young chevalier?” he asked, a question that was foremost in my mind as well.

  “I sent him on an errand.” Aunt Désirée helped herself to a cordial from the case near the bed. She looked me over. “Are you going to hold your tongue, young lady? Your mother warned me you’ve got a bit of a tongue.”

  I had to hold my tongue just then.

  “Désirée, don’t you be…Grand Dieu! I’d forgotten what a—”

  “If I were you, I’d keep quiet, Joseph. I’ve already been attacked by Madame downstairs for the eighty-six livres you owe. And there will be other bills, no doubt.”

  I sighed and went to the window. A barber covered in flour crossed the street, dodging a man on horseback. “When will Monsieur de Beauharnais be returning?” I asked.

  Aunt Désirée took me by the shoulders and turned me toward the light. “None too soon, I hope. You’re wearing far too much rouge. And what are these things you’ve got stuck to your face? Patches have been out of style since King Louis XV died!”

  I glanced over at Mimi, who was standing by the door trying hard not to giggle. “Madame has been helping me with my toilette,” I confessed.

  “Madame downstairs? No wonder you look like a tart!”

  I fought back tears. Aunt Désirée sighed and pursed her lips. I detected a flicker of affection beneath her crusty exterior. “My dear child, you will find that your fiancé—should he approve of you, that is, and consent to this union—values simplicity, not artifice. He’s a strong advocate, as the young man will no doubt inform you, of the ‘Cult of Sensibility,’ God help us all.”

  She made this proclamation as if it were a badge of both honour and ridicule. I hadn’t the faintest notion what she meant.

  “What your Aunt Désirée is trying to suggest, Rose,” my father said, sinking back under the quilt, “is that you change your toilette.”

  And so it was that I received still another lesson in how to dress like a proper French lady.

  “There now, Joseph, what do you think?” Aunt Désirée pushed me to the foot of Father’s bed. She had clothed me in a simple lawn dress and a straw hat covered with silk flowers.

  “You’ve got her looking like a peasant, Désirée. Are you crazy? She will catch her death in that get-up.”

  The dress was not too different from the chemises we wore back home, around the house doing our chores. I felt disappointed changing out of the amaranth brocade gown Mother had had made for me, but Aunt Désirée insisted it was out of style and that Monsieur de Beauharnais would never consent to marry me if he saw me in a dress like that.

  “You never did have taste, Joseph.” Aunt Désirée pulled at my sidecurls, trying to get them to fall in loose locks around my face—à la négligence, she called it. “Although I must confess I rather agree with you in this instance. But whatever the Queen wears, all the young people follow, and God knows she’s leading them on a merry chase.” She pulled a timepiece out of her bosom. “Come now, child, we mustn’t linger.”

  I was more confused than nervous following Aunt Désirée down the stairs to the front parlour. The efforts of the last hours had bewildered me, and for some reason I wasn’t expecting to meet Monsieur de Beauharnais at that moment—so when I saw a young man in uniform sitting on the sofa, absorbed in a book, I didn’t think anything of it.

  “Alexandre, if you please,” Aunt Désirée called out with a theatrical flourish, “it is my pleasure to introduce you to my niece—and your fiancée.”

  Monsieur de Beauharnais looked up, startled, as if he’d been waiting for a coach and suddenly it had arrived. “Oh!” He put a bookmark in his little leather volume before carefully setting it down on the side-table. He stood up.

  “Mademoiselle Tascher de la Pagerie,” Aunt Désirée said grandly, “Monsieur le chevalier de Beauharnais.”

  I felt there had been a mistake. This young man was so very distinguished in his white uniform with silver facings. His hair (his own, not a wig—I like that) was brushed back from his forehead and nicely powdered. His nose was perhaps too long, but gracefully so. His arched eyebrows gave him an intelligent, questioning look. His eyes were dark, and quite deep set.

  I dropped a curtsy all the way down to the ground (displaying my bosom to good effect, I confess) and on rising offered
my hand as Father had taught me, delicately, with my little finger slightly raised. I smiled, remembering to keep my mouth closed,* which was not difficult, for I was terrified of speaking. Fortunately, Aunt Désirée was not. She stationed herself on the sofa and pulled me down beside her. Then she and Monsieur de Beauharnais talked about whether or not they should get accommodation elsewhere. Apparently Monsieur de Beauharnais was not content with the Hôtel Graves. Aunt Désirée observed that Father should not be moved; he needed to gather strength for the long journey back to Paris. Monsieur de Beauharnais said that in that case he would take a room at the Hôtel du Grand Monarque. I turned my head from one to the other.

  At that point Madame Mignonette stumbled in, carrying a basket of soiled laundry. She quickly perceived the situation and, stuttering, asked if we wished refreshment.

  “What’s wrong with that woman?” Monsieur de Beauharnais asked after she had left, backing out of the room in the most comical way. He pulled a cigar out of a silver case.

  “She’s no doubt a bit ruffled by the purpose of this meeting,” Aunt Désirée answered.

  “She knows?”

  “So far as I can ascertain, everyone knows.” Aunt Désirée rolled her eyes.

  “Surely that wasn’t necessary.”

  Madame’s maid came in with wine in a decanter, a little dish of chewing marzipan and a plate of buttered burnt toast. I declined the wine and the sweetmeats, but accepted a piece of toast, eating it in little bites and trying to be ladylike, in spite of the crumbs falling onto my lap. Whenever Monsieur de Beauharnais happened to glance at me, I smiled and made sweet eyes.

  I searched my mind for something to say. “Madame Longpré came to call,” I announced finally. “She said she would welcome the opportunity to see Monsieur de Beauharnais.”

  There was a moment’s commotion, for a bit of toast had caught dangerously in Aunt Désirée’s throat. “Madame Laure Longpré?” she asked, her eyes watering.

  I nodded. “Didn’t Mother take care of her when she was a child?”

  “Your mother and I together. Laure was a handful.”

  “Still is,” Monsieur de Beauharnais said.

  “What a pity that we won’t be able to call on her,” Aunt Désirée said.

  Then Madame Mignonette announced that supper was served. As I feared, the main course was eels. I noticed that Monsieur de Beauharnais was not fond of them either—so at least we have that in common.

  Later we sat around the fire in the front parlour. Some of the others in the inn were playing whist. They were being so boisterous I sometimes had difficulty following what Monsieur de Beauharnais was saying—“A groundswell of enlightened liberalism is sweeping the land,” or something like that. Then Aunt Désirée would nod and smile, and I would nod and smile, and Monsieur de Beauharnais would speak another sentence.

  And so, in this way, my fiancé and I spent our first evening together.

  October 28.

  “Well?” Father demanded when I brought him his morning bowl of fish bouillon. (I’ve succeeded in persuading him to refrain from spirits—at least until noon.) “The chevalier is to your liking?”

  “He’s a gentleman.” I pushed back the bedcurtains. “And comely,” I added. My cheeks felt flushed.

  “Indeed. I gather the ladies quite like him.”

  “Philosophy is his passion,” I told him proudly.

  “Mon Dieu—a philosophe?” Father sank back onto the pillows. “Well,” he sighed, “it could be worse, I guess.”

  Later.

  This afternoon Aunt Désirée met with a notary. Now she has the authority to arrange the marriage herself, she said, “should anything happen.”

  Should Father die, she meant.

  That evening.

  Monsieur de Beauharnais has gone to the country to call on friends from his regiment. Aunt Désirée has taken advantage of his absence to instruct me on how to be a good wife. This afternoon, after the midday meal (I’m not to eat with my fingers), she presented me with a book which I’m to study. In it are a number of essays on continence and obedience as well as one on how to prepare viands and address servants. She informed me that I treat Mimi too much as a familiar, that in order to command the respect due my station I must observe correct forms.

  Also, as a grown woman now, I must take responsibility for the instruction of my servant: Mimi is not to spit and she is to refrain from using a word such as pisspot in polite company. She is to drop a curtsy when she sees me and address me as Mademoiselle de la Pagerie. After I am married she’s to call me Madame la vicomtesse. Then Aunt Désirée demonstrated a curtsy and made Mimi practise until she had it right. Mimi has never been noted for grace and it was all I could do not to burst.

  October 30.

  Monsieur de Beauharnais returned from his visit to the country all good cheer, taking my hand and promising to be a faithful companion “on the journey of life.” I said, “Me, too,” and Aunt Désirée looked happy and clucked around us like a mother hen.

  We played trictrac after supper. (I let Monsieur de Beauharnais win.) He is so educated and so talented, I am in awe of him. He draws portraits, he has a good singing voice, and he plays the harpsichord. He reads Latin, speaks German, and even a little English. He told me I have lovely eyes and called me “mathia mou,” Greek for “light of his eyes,” he said. I wish I knew something Greek I could call him.

  October 31, All Saints’ Day Eve.

  The doctor feels that Father has improved sufficiently to travel. We leave in the morning. Monsieur de Beauharnais has purchased a closed carriage for the journey. (For forty louis! So much!) It is dark green with black leather seats—very pretty. Aunt Désirée lectured him on the evils of going into debt but he said that the expenditure was necessary for Father’s comfort. And, he added, “If Mademoiselle Tascher and I marry, debt will not be an issue.”

  If we marry?

  In which I come to my city of dreams

  Wednesday, November 10, 1779—Paris.

  Paris! As we crossed the Seine Father gave me a sou to throw in. “Make a wish.”

  “This is my wish.”

  Paris is bigger and more beautiful than I had imagined, but so muddy!

  “Boue de Paris,” Monsieur de Beauharnais cursed, for a bit had splashed onto the sleeve of his lavender grosgrain riding jacket.

  “Lutetia, city of mud—that’s what we call it,” Aunt Désirée said.

  I had to confess that there was a strange smell. Aunt Désirée said one got used to it, but she cautioned me to be careful of getting any mud on my skirts—it can burn a hole if left on too long.

  We made our way at a footpace through crowded streets. I was in a daze, taking it all in. It was cold; everyone in the market was wearing shoes. A man in a beribboned wig was selling vinegar from a wheelbarrow. A squat little soap dealer with a pockmarked face had twisted pretty scarves together to hold up his buckskin breeches. I saw a fish lady wearing a fluted cap.

  And so many smells! So many sounds! Everywhere foot passengers were talking, arguing, singing, but I couldn’t understand a word—it’s French, but poissard, Aunt Désirée said, the language of the market.

  It was late by the time we got to the district of Monsieur de Beauharnais’s family home. The street lamps hanging out on great brackets were just being lit. The house is on a street so narrow the carriage couldn’t turn around. Aunt Désirée expressed warnings regarding the neighbourhood. “A short distance away thieves are known to gather,” she said.*

  The house is tall, with big shutters. There is a stone face of a woman above the front door. “Vesta,” Monsieur de Beauharnais said, helping Father up the steps. “A Roman goddess.”

  “A guiablesse!” Mimi whispered, and refused to pass.

  I grabbed her hand and pulled her in. “There are no voodoo spirits in Paris,” I hissed.

  Inside it was very grand—more grand than Uncle Tascher’s home in Fort-Royal even—with a big fireplace and many fine furnishings. In
the front parlour white and gold brocade curtains hung from gold rods.

  “Ohhhhh,” Mimi sighed. The slippery wood floors squeaked when she walked over them, reminding me of crick cracks.

  Father took my arm. “This will do?” he asked, giving me a wink.

  “It’s like a palace,” I whispered. I had a sad thought of Mother and Manette, of our worn grey rugs.

  “This way!” Aunt Désirée called out, following Monsieur de Beauharnais up a sweeping staircase.

  Monsieur de Beauharnais’s father, Marquis de Beauharnais, received us in his bedchamber, standing with the help of two walking sticks. He was dressed in a flannel night-shirt and a quilted gold satin dressing gown. He was wearing an old-fashioned white powdered wig of thick curls which flowed over his shoulders and down his back. He was a lot older than I expected—in his sixties or seventies I think—but he had an air of distinction, in spite of his state of undress.

  I made a half-curtsy and accepted his offer of a chair by the fireside, where a tea board had been set.

  “Content, Alexandre?” the Marquis asked, after we’d been introduced. I was relieved that Monsieur de Beauharnais answered in the affirmative.

  “I believe you will find her pleasing,” Aunt Désirée said.

  “I can see that for myself,” the Marquis said. He winked at me.

  After a light supper and a family prayer we retired, weary travellers all. Aunt Désirée showed me to my room, which is large and filled with the most elegant furnishings. Father is in the room next to mine so that I might easily tend him. Mimi is in a room on the third floor with the other household servants.

  And so, dear Diary, I must blow out the candle. I hear church bells ringing. I am here, at last. Paris!

  November 13.

  Father is more comfortable now that he’s taken to bed and doesn’t have to move, although he’s none too happy about all the concoctions Aunt Désirée makes him take. In the morning he’s to eat a paste of powdered rhubarb and currants. In the evening she brings him pennyroyal mixed with sugar. He doesn’t mind that so much, but the poultice Mimi must smear on his chest is disgusting: bread mashed with milk, egg yolks and raisins.