The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

  We miss Eugène. Alexandre told us a number of charming stories—it is clear that he is quite fond of the boy. As for Hortense, he made a point of mentioning that he would like “his daughter” (his exact words) weaned from her wet-nurse. I told him it would be best for her to be weaned after you move. I know it is hard to wait, but it is not an easy process. Best to be settled first.

  Your loving Aunt Désirée

  July 22, Saint Mary Magdalen’s Day—Fontainebleau.

  How quiet Fontainebleau is—so unlike Paris, which never rests. This morning I took my morning cup of chocolate into the garden, breathing in the cleansing air. I could hear the soothing clip-clop of the chimney sweep’s horse, the creaking of the rag collector’s wagon. From somewhere close a rooster crowed. We will be happy here.

  July 24, evening.

  This afternoon Madame Rousseau, the wet-nurse, brought Hortense. The good woman bawled leaving “her” girl behind, she has formed such a strong attachment. When Hortense saw the carriage pull away she began screaming as if she were being tortured. This horrible state lasted for over two hours.

  Now, at last, she has fallen into an exhausted sleep. I look upon the face of my daughter with apprehension. Will she ever love me?

  Friday, September 23.

  Father writes that there has been no income earned on La Pagerie, or even on the Marquis’s properties in Saint-Domingue.*

  “No income at all? But how is that possible?” Aunt Désirée exclaimed when I read out the letter. “How are we to manage?”

  Indeed. Already my debts are mounting. Alexandre hasn’t paid support for four months. He recently bought a country property in the Loire from his brother and claims to have no cash. And now, without income from the Islands…

  May 4, 1786.

  A Madame Croÿ came to call this afternoon. She’d sent a letter from Paris a week ago requesting an audience on a matter she said concerned us.

  She is a humble woman of quiet composure. Although her clothes were tattered, she wore them with grace. She was nervous in our company, but when she perceived that we were kindly, she was able to speak her mind.

  Her daughter, a married woman with three children, is about to have another. She explained that her daughter intended to put this baby into the charities, for she could not afford to provide for it. Madame Croÿ was concerned about this possibility, for she knew what the fate of that child would be. Indeed, more than half the babies given over each year die.**

  “Why have you come to us?” I asked.

  “Because the Vicomte de Beauharnais is the father—”

  “Alexandre?” Aunt Désirée interrupted.

  “I do not believe he would deny it.” The spots of rouge on Madame Croÿ’s cheeks were garishly bright in the afternoon sun.

  I sat back. I had falsely assumed I would no longer be affected by Alexandre’s reprehensible behaviour. I was mistaken.

  “You’re not going to suggest that we take the child,” Aunt Désirée said.

  “No—I thought perhaps you…I thought if you could help—”

  “Financially, you mean.” Aunt Désirée sighed.

  “It wouldn’t take much, but it is more than I can offer. I had to sell my winter cloak to purchase a coach ticket to come see you today.”

  “How much would your daughter require in order to keep the child?” I asked.

  “I do not believe she has the heart for it,” Madame Croÿ said. “I am ashamed to say so, but the baby would be better in the care of a foster parent. I do laundry for a woman, a Madame d’Antigny, the wife of a goldsmith, but a paresseuse—she has no children of her own. She might be willing, were the financial needs looked after.”

  “You have discussed this with her?” Aunt Désirée asked.

  “Aunt Désirée, I think we should talk to Alexandre,” I said.

  May 6.

  Alexandre arrived in the rain. He’d set out from Paris the day before, but the roads were so muddy a linchpin had been lost from one of the fore wheels and they had had to stop at an inn along the way.

  He’d been alarmed by my use of a mounted courier. “Bad news always comes fast. Is it Father? Do not keep me in suspense, I beg you.” His yellow velvet frock coat was splattered with mud.

  “A Madame Croÿ came to see us,” I said.

  Alexandre leaned his sword against the wall. “Do I know this Madame Croÿ?” Aubin cleaned the mud off his boots.

  “She claims you enjoyed an amourette with her daughter.” Aunt Désirée appeared in the doorway behind us, wearing a brocade dressing gown over her corset and petticoat. She’d interrupted her toilette to come to the door, her hair greased but unpowdered.

  Alexandre groaned.

  “You recall?” Aunt Désirée asked.

  He sighed with exasperation and entered the parlour. “I believe you mean Madame Darigrand—a certain Geneva-Louise.” He sat down by the fire, blowing into his hands and rubbing them together. “It’s so cold out there! Who would believe it’s May? What’s come over this country? The weather has become so unpredictable!”

  The parlourmaid came to the door. “Would Vicomte de Beauharnais wish for something?”

  “I’ll have a pint of claret—warm.”

  “Alexandre!” Aunt Désirée said. “It’s not yet eleven.”

  “And you haven’t been travelling all day in this miserable weather. When you think of the nonsense they concern themselves with, you’d think they’d figure out a way to heat a diligence.”

  I sat opposite him, ready to speak to the subject at hand, when Mimi came to the door holding Hortense’s hand, Eugène following behind, carrying a toy crossbow he’d made the day before from sticks and bits of string.

  “Take the children away,” Aunt Désirée told Mimi.

  “Please allow a moment.” I knew how much his father’s visits meant to Eugène. Hortense squirmed to escape Mimi’s grasp.

  Alexandre examined Eugène’s crossbow. “Do you want to try it?” Eugène asked.

  “I must talk with your mother and Aunt Désirée first.”

  Mimi picked Hortense up, setting off a howl. “You will see your father soon,” I assured her.

  After the children had gone, the three of us sat for a moment in uncomfortable silence. Aunt Désirée cleared her throat. “Madame Croÿ is concerned about the welfare of the child,” she said finally.

  “The child?” Alexandre stood in front of the fire. There were only a few small sticks on a deep bed of ashes—they gave off little heat. “What child?”

  “You don’t know?” I asked. Aunt Désirée and I exchanged a confused look.

  Aunt Désirée explained: “Madame Croÿ claims that her daughter—Madame Darigrand—is soon to be having your child.”

  Alexandre sat down in a chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs in an agitated manner.

  “Alexandre,” I said, “you look upset. Please explain.”

  “I…knew Geneva-Louise—or Madame Darigrand, as you so honour her—for a period of six months. I wasn’t the first and I won’t be the last. We broke off, and a month later she came to me, claiming to be with child.”

  “Why does this news surprise you?” I asked.

  “Because I gave Madame Darigrand a considerable sum of money to…to resolve her condition.”

  “I see.” Aunt Désirée crossed herself. “And what do you propose to do now, Alexandre?”

  “I told Madame Darigrand I wanted nothing more to do with her,” Alexandre said, “and certainly nothing to do with a child.”

  “But, Alexandre,” I said, “you are the father of that—”

  “I did not journey all the way from Paris to be lectured,” Alexandre said. He strode back into the foyer.

  “Hortense and Eugène will be heartbroken if you leave!” I cried out, running after him.

  He stayed. I promised not to mention Madame Darigrand again.*

  August 10.

  We are besieged by financial troubles, which I greatly resent for I c
onsider money one of the least important things in life. Yet the want of it can certainly be distracting.

  The Marquis’s Saint-Domingue plantation is not earning, nor La Pagerie in Martinico. Aunt Désirée and I have written letter after letter to Father, but without solution. He claims it’s the British, the weather, inflation…all adding up to the same result: no income. I’ve had to depend on Alexandre’s contribution, which is rarely forthcoming. There are times when I am entirely without…

  September 3, 1:15 P.M.

  It is said that autumn is beautiful in Fontainebleau, but the charm is dulled for me in this season. In three hours Alexandre will arrive and we will partake of the refreshments the cook has made in honour of Eugène’s fifth birthday. I’ve just finished decorating the cake, fulfilling his request for liquorice comfits all around on top. Oh, how my heart went out with each comfit I placed, how the tears started as I positioned each candle.

  September 4.

  Eugène and Alexandre left this morning, Eugène holding on to his new book bag, looking very grown-up but for the baby-blanket he clasped in his other hand. I tried hard not to cry, for he might cry in turn, and that would have distressed him, I knew, trying so hard to be big. We are all of us trying.

  Wednesday, January 3, 1787.

  Creditors pester our door like flies in autumn. Years ago, the Marquis’s annual pension was set at one hundred and fifty thousand livres. In the last decade, it was reduced to twelve thousand. And now, because of the impoverishment of the government treasury,* it has been further reduced to under three thousand livres a year.

  Three thousand! How can the Marquis and my aunt be expected to live on such a sum? After all his years of distinguished service, is this his reward? I have written the Minister of War to try to persuade him to have the pension increased. We are renting a house that can stable twelve horses, but can’t afford to keep a pair.

  The Marquis maintains his humour: “I used to think someone impoverished if he couldn’t enjoy the privilege of raising three armed men. I’ll soon be so poor I’ll have to stay in bed while my breeches are mended.” He’s in bed all the time anyway; it’s unlikely he’ll ever wear out a pair of breeches again.

  May 1, 1788.

  The letters from home are distressing. Father is not well and now Manette is seriously ill. Mother begs me to come home—her words have an ominous tone. I must go, surely…but how could I leave Eugène?

  Tuesday, May 27.

  We’ve received the most bewildering news: the Island properties have been earning a profit. According to information Uncle Tascher provided, last year La Pagerie earned seventy thousand livres.

  “Seventy thousand! Why hasn’t Joseph sent you your share?” Aunt Désirée demanded. “Has he sent you anything?”

  “He’s been ill. No doubt—”

  “I wonder if the Marquis’s properties earned a profit as well.” She began pacing in an agitated state. I no longer feared that she might faint.

  “If only I could talk to him,” I said.

  Aunt Désirée stopped. “You must go, Rose.”

  “To Martinico?” I stuttered.

  “I would gladly go myself were it not for the Marquis’s health.”

  “But—” What about Eugène? Alexandre would never permit me to take him. “But Eugène is coming in a few weeks to spend his summer holiday with me.” I’d been looking forward to it, making plans.

  “Yet it is precisely for his sake that you must go, Rose. It is his inheritance, his future, after all.”

  I was at a loss. I longed to see my family, my ailing father and sister, but the very thought of an ocean voyage made me ill. “It would cost a small fortune to go,” I said. Last week Alexandre had informed me that he didn’t have the two thousand livres required to pay for Eugène’s schooling. As well, my own debts had mounted.

  “It will cost you not to go.”

  “But it’s almost June. I would have to leave immediately.” It would be dangerous to be at sea in August, the month of hurricanes.

  “Exactly.” Aunt Désirée dipped a quill in the inkwell. “The Marquis may be feeble but as a former commander in the navy there are a few things he can arrange—I should think passage on the next ship to Fort-Royal would be one of them,” she said, writing out a note. “There—” She sprinkled the letter with sand and shook it clean. “Take this up for his signature and I’ll send it out on the next post.”

  June 2.

  It has happened very quickly. Passage has been found. I’ve borrowed six thousand livres for the journey. As well, Aunt Désirée will loan me one thousand livres. Already she’s found a buyer for my harp—that should help pay for Eugène’s tuition.

  And so it is set—Mimi, Hortense and I will be leaving in a few weeks for Paris. From there it will be a three-day journey by coach to Rouen, where we’ll take a river barge to Le Havre to wait ship.

  There is so much to do, so many things to remember to do, so many things to worry about.

  I told Hortense last night, at bedtime. She likes the idea of a boat. She is five now, and a strong girl.

  Mimi is ecstatic, of course.

  I can’t believe we are doing this.

  June 20—Paris.

  Hortense and I are in Paris, saying our farewells to Eugène and Alexandre. We leave for Le Havre in the morning.

  It was difficult explaining to Eugène that we are going to be away for a very long time. “I must see my father and my sister,” I explained. “They are ill.” He is only six; it was the explanation he could most easily understand.

  He said he would come visit us, and I had to explain that he couldn’t. “Your sister and I will be on the boat for a very long time, just to get there.”

  I gave him a music box with a toy soldier that popped up. I turned the box over. I’d had an inscription engraved on the bottom.

  “I can’t read it,” he confessed.

  I pointed to each word as I pronounced it: “For Eugène, whom I will always love, Maman.”

  He turned the box over in his hands. “Is that all?” he asked.

  “That’s all,” I said, too close to tears to say more.

  In which I return home

  Thursday, July 3, 1788.

  As we approached the open sea it grew dark. Soon there was a great wind and one of the sails began flapping, making a cracking sound. Quickly the men began taking down the sails.

  “Get below,” a flagman yelled. “Take the child!”

  I grabbed Hortense for fear the wind might snatch her away.

  The swells were growing. The rain began hitting us violently. Just before I climbed down into the passage, I looked out to sea. In the dark I could see a darker dark, a thickening of wind and rain. Then, a deafening roar; the rain had turned to stone. Mimi appeared, falling down the ladder behind us.

  We stumbled into our cabin as best we could, for we were thrown from one side of the narrow passage to the other. Hortense cried out; I held her too tightly. I braced myself against the bunk. I could feel the sickness rising within me. We’d sunk into the pit of Hell, into an elemental fury. “Mimi!” I called out.

  “I am here.” A voice in the dark, barely discernible over the frightful howling. I felt her curled at the foot of the bunk.

  The sickness filled me again. I fought it, weakly. Oh, please, God, I prayed, shameful for having neglected Him.

  We emerged into the light, giddy with the memory of terror. The deck was covered with stones of ice, glittering like a wealth of diamonds. And, as far as I could see, the undulating surface of the sea, smooth and untroubled.

  [Undated]

  We’ve hit a calm, and are helpless, unmoving. For two days we’ve not moved, merely drifted. I never thought I’d pray for wind.

  I feel cut loose from the world, detached. The most horrifying thing might happen and I would never know.

  When I think about this, looking out on the vast watery surface, standing on the deck under the bright and crowded stars, when I think
of the enormity of it all and the meaninglessness of my own small life, I am both sickened and comforted.

  “Time is longer than rope,” Mimi says, a Carib proverb. And now I understand.

  August 7.

  At last, we’ve caught a wind. It pulls us forward. With the rising and the falling of the waves, the sickness fills me again. I tolerate it gladly. I’m anxious to be done with this voyage.

  [Undated]

  We’re approaching Martinico. I can smell it. I stand on the deck and pretend it is the wind that brings tears to my eyes.

  August 10.

  Sighting the mountains I held Hortense in my arms and wept. “Is that ‘Tinico?’” she asked, perhaps four times before I gave up answering.

  Mimi leans on the railing and stares, as if turning away would cause this vision to disappear.

  Oh, my beautiful island—in the midst of such a great water.

  August 11—Fort-Royal.

  We pulled into port in a torrent of rain. Uncle Tascher braved the weather to meet us, drenched.

  The roads were rivers of mud. We made it with difficulty to his new estate in the hills, where the house-slaves relieved us of our mud-splattered clothes. Hortense escaped and went running through the rooms in her petticoat (Mimi chasing after), much to the delight of her cousins.

  I was astonished by the luxury of Uncle’s home. He is Mayor now, as well as Port Commander. “And all he has to do is keep the young men from killing themselves off in duels,” his wife said, giggling. Her time of confinement is approaching, it is clear.