The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

  And another—I enclose a pamphlet by Sieyès, What Is the Third Estate? I recommend you study it.

  April 15, 1789—Paris

  Darling!

  I’ve moved back to Paris—it’s so thrilling here now! It’s the “Roman Republic” all over again—the Goddess of Love rules. Everywhere one goes there is great celebrating, dancing around bonfires. To walk down the street is to become intoxicated by profound sentiment, embraced by everyone one meets, rich and poor, young and old alike.

  My salon will never be the same. Where before we talked of Beauty, we now talk of Equal Representation.

  Your loving Aunt Fanny

  Note—How can you stand being away from the opera for so long?

  August 11.

  I’ve been reading the journals that came over on the last boat. I was saddened to learn that the Dauphin died—yet no one seemed to even notice, much less care. I grieve for the Queen. A boy so like Eugène.

  Eugène. I grow ill with a longing to hold him again…I have been in Martinico for one year.

  July 20, 1789—Fontainebleau

  Dear Rose,

  Both Alexandre and François have been elected to the Estates General. Now whenever the two brother-deputies visit on feast-days, they have a frightful row. The Marquis refuses to even discuss political concerns any more, claiming to find “all that” distasteful. “All that” will go away soon, he says, and everything will be back the way it should. He burned all the books by Rousseau in the house, even the signed copy of Discourse on Inequality. I hate to think what is going to happen when Alexandre discovers it missing.

  At least we aren’t in Paris—there are twenty thousand troops there now. The strumpets are getting rich, no doubt. As well, every beggar and thief in France has come to the city, swarming at the slightest opportunity. Each district—all sixty of them—has drawn up its own army to keep order. I’ve taken to carrying a pistol in my bag, even here in Fontainebleau.

  Don’t forget your prayers.

  Your loving Aunt Désirée

  Note—You’ve heard about the riot at the Bastille? Fanny promised she would retrieve some of the stones for me. I’ll save one for you, if you like.

  August 10, 1789—Versailles

  Dear Rose,

  What were before disconnected jottings have now become a fluid system of philosophy, an ether that connects the present to the past. I have long understood how the Roman Empire gave way to the feudal system, which in turn gave way to the modern monarchies. Such a study reveals the oppressive nature of our laws. But it is only now that I begin to understand that it is the Roman Republic in all its glory that we seek to rebuild.

  Would that my family could understand the profound nature of the task before us. Unfortunately, they are blinded by history and by the traditional greed of our class. In joining with other enlightened nobles (La Rochefoucauld! Lafayette! The Duc d’Orléans!) to renounce our feudal privileges, I was forced to choose between my family, on the one hand, and my country, on the other. Oh, what a night of profound heroism! What sublime sacrifice! May the night of August 4 burn in my heart for ever.

  The sacrifice of my father’s regard, of my brother’s fraternal embrace is a loss I must bear. The Revolution demands that each citizen make a personal offering for the good of the Nation. I submit with tears of virtue in my eyes, knowing that my pain will be rewarded.

  With a noble heart, your husband, Deputy Alexandre Beauharnais “an honorable and virtuous Republican”

  Note—I urge you to study the pamphlets I have forwarded, open your heart to the truths you will find therein. One—A Few Thoughts on the Nature of Reason & Revolution—I wrote myself. I have worded it simply so that a woman might understand, for I am not of that group that believes women incapable of abstract reasoning.

  Sunday

  Chère Maman,

  I have my own sword now. My tutor says I might need it. When are you coming home?

  A thousand kisses, Eugène

  December 9.

  A créole man was found dead in a clearing in the woods near Fort-Royal, together with the head of a butchered pig. Blood had been spilled over his hands. Three days before a slave had died on his plantation, imprisoned in a sweltering hut in the sun without food and water.

  I hear drumming in the slave village. The moon casts a ghostly light. I see a fire up on the hill, hear shouting and singing. I know the song:

  Never, never, I’ll not forget the ranks of Africa.

  Never, never, I’ll not forget their children.

  I despair.

  October 10, 1789—Fontainebleau

  Dear Rose,

  The Marquis and I have not been well. Our nerves suffer from the distressing reports in the journals.

  I am ashamed of my sex. Women—thousands of them, it has been reported—forced our King and Queen to move into that horrid palace in Paris, and now everyone of quality is talking of leaving France. Even the King’s brothers have fled, even Madame de Polignac, the royal governess, abandoning her charges. (How could she do that?)

  But that isn’t all of it. Monsieur Ogé, that mulatto from Saint-Domingue, went before the Assembly to demand equal rights for mulattoes—and succeeded! One delegate even suggested that the slaves be freed!* Everyone, it seems, has lost their reason. If the slaves were allowed to go free, we’d be penniless!

  Pray for us…

  Your loving Aunt Désirée

  Note—Fanny’s son Claude and his wife have had a baby girl.** Send your condolences.

  January 23, 1790.

  Morin, Mimi’s lover and the father of the child she is carrying, was killed in a riot in Fort-Royal. There is nothing I can say to comfort her, for it was men of my race who murdered him.

  I stood at the door to her whitewashed hut watching her crumple into the arms of the slave women, listened to their collective moans—and I, who am like a sister to her, was forced to turn away, tears running down my cheeks.

  Drums in the mountains. As a child, the steady beat lulled me into sleep. But tonight I do not feel comfort in such sounds. Tonight I hear anger, and a terrible, terrible grief.

  November 5, 1789—Lake Maggiore

  Darling!

  Michel de Cubières and I are in a delightful alpine spa. (Remember Michel? The poet with the big lips?) Every evening we play faro in a casino in the village, where a shocking amount of money changes hands. But what is life if one is not prepared to cast all to the winds? One must be brave to be so foolish.

  The Austrians have been threatening to set up a “cordon sanitaire” across the mountains to keep “dangerous ideas” from coming over from France. Were it not for my mindless chatter and Michel staying quiet—for once!—I doubt very much that they would have let us into their backward little paradise. Fortunately, they neglected to look in the basket that contained the political pamphlets Michel intends to distribute on the streets of Rome.

  Take care of yourself, darling. I hear your husband has become a Hero of the Revolution. How dashing!

  Your devoted Aunt Fanny

  Note—Claude’s wife had a girl. He’s not taking it well, which disappoints me. I thought we were beyond all that.

  February 1.

  Mimi lost her child. I went to see her in the infirmary, but she was in a fever and did not comprehend that it was me. I sat beside her for a time, cooling her with strips of linen soaked in rum. She was talking in a dream: Never, never, I’ll not forget…Never, never…

  Oh, my dear Mimi, how my heart goes out to her. I pray, I pray.

  November 11, 1789—Paris

  Dear Rose,

  I have been elected one of three secretaries to the Assembly. I am both honoured and challenged. Fate, surely, is the author of a scheme of such heroic dimensions.

  I am enclosing a copy of the Declaration of the Rights of Man, suitable for framing. I consider involvement in its creation one of the achievements of my life.*

  Your husband, Deputy Alexandre Beauharnais

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nbsp; Sunday—Fontainebleau

  Chère Maman,

  Papa’s name is in the news-sheets. I’ve not seen him for two weeks. Are you ever coming back?

  A thousand kisses, your son Eugène

  February 3.

  Mimi has emerged from her fever, wrapped in sorrow like a ghost. The slave women hover around her protectively whenever I approach. “Go away! You curse her!” I do not persist.

  December 7, 1790—Chambéry

  Darling,

  The Italians were positively wild about my poem “To Frederick the Great on the Death of Voltaire.” That and one of my novels (Abailard the Pretender, wouldn’t you know—the most naughty of all my works) is being translated into Italian and will be published there soon. I’m a writer of the world now!

  How is my goddaughter Hortense? I am enclosing a leather-bound copy of Erasmus’s Manners for Children for her. It is, at the least, egalitarian. Encourage her to copy the lovely script—the first step toward becoming a writer.

  As you perhaps already know, Marie and François have separated, for reasons of philosophy. Philosophy! At least when Claude (God rest his soul*) and I parted, we did so for reasons of sentiment.

  Your loving Aunt Fanny

  February 23.

  Mimi has been put on the field-gang, Mother informed me this afternoon.

  “How could you do that! Mimi belongs with me, with Hortense!”

  Mother put down her needlework. “Apologize for your temper. Mimi asked to be put in the fields.”

  “But why?” I could not comprehend. Field-work was a killing labour.

  “I can only presume it is because she has turned against us, because of our race. Were it not for your sensibilities, Rose, I would have sold her, or at least had her whipped. Hate is a dangerous thing in a slave.”

  I left the room in tears.

  December 17, 1790—Fontainebleau

  Dear Rose,

  The Marquis and I have suffered a collapse of nerves due to the distressing news about François and Marie. The Marquis is terribly upset, going on about the morals of the young, the stain upon the family name, the lack of commitment to values. I hold my tongue, but in my heart I grieve: for is this not the fruit of our own sins? I have been going to mass twice daily and to my confessor weekly. I urge you to do the same.

  Your loving Aunt Désirée

  Note—I am enclosing a bill for one livre, the new paper money we are required to use now, but it’s not worth one sou—hold on to your gold.

  Wednesday, March 3.

  The island press has been restricted for fear that any further mention of “liberty” would be dangerous. Even the journals we receive from Paris must be hidden away.

  “Your husband’s letters should be burned,” Mother said. She does not approve of Alexandre’s views. “As well as Madame Fanny’s.”

  “Along with her novel, perhaps?”

  “Indeed,” Mother sputtered, crossing herself.

  I smiled, for I have seen her glancing into it when she thought no one was looking.

  December 30, 1789—Fontainebleau

  Dear Rose,

  Thank you for the lovely Christmas gifts—the Marquis loved his bamboo cane and already the bottle of La Pagerie rum has been consumed. I adore the silver bangles, but especially the set of enamel buttons painted with island scenes—they brought on a feeling of reverie in me. And a crate of coffee beans! What indulgence!

  Eugène loved all the presents you sent (really, Rose, you must try to refrain from such excess), but the item that pleased him the most—to our own discomfort, I confess—was the foghorn made of shell.

  Your uncle reports that you have been diligent in your efforts to organize the finances and the management of the properties. You must be having some success, for already we have received a banknote. This money is very badly needed. You can’t imagine how expensive everything has become. It is impossible to live on even twelve thousand livres a year now. Nom de Dieu!

  How is my brother’s health? How is your sister Manette? I have sent my gardener on a pilgrimage to Chartres to seek cures. He is devout; I have hope of some success.

  It has been a gloomy holiday season. No one entertains any more—everyone stays home.

  Remember—don’t neglect your prayers…

  Your loving Aunt Désirée

  Christmas Day

  Chère Maman,

  Thank you for the foghorn. I have decided to become a sailor. That way I can come see you and my sister Hortense.

  Eugène

  May 21.

  As I write at this little table in my room, listening to the heavy dripping of the rain, I wonder if it’s possible I ever left this island. France seems like a dream to me, more distant than my childhood.

  I sleep with Eugène’s miniature under my pillow. Tonight I could not find it. Fear takes my heart—will I ever see him again?

  In which we flee under cannon fire

  June 3, 1790.

  A mulatto uprising in Saint-Pierre. In his sermon this morning, Father Droppet questioned the existence of a soul in the Negro. After church, talk of weapons. I sleep with a pistol on my side-table.

  July 30.

  Today Mother said, “You must go, Rose—take your daughter, return to France.” Her eyes were dark, I could not see her thoughts. “This is no place to raise a child.” She pushed a cloth bag across the table at me.

  It was a bag of coins—the coins she counted so religiously every day. “I cannot.” I pushed the bag away. How could I abandon her with violence threatening, with Father and Manette so ill?

  “The English are going to attack. If you don’t go now, you will never see your son again…”

  Tears came to my eyes. “But—”

  “I will not mourn you!” And then, her voice low, almost a whisper, “I will not bury all my daughters!”

  Later.

  With a heavy heart I have written Uncle Tascher, asking if it is possible to obtain passage to France…

  That evening.

  Uncle Tascher sent back a prompt reply. It is difficult to get passage to France at this time, he said, but not impossible. The openings come quickly, without notice. I must be in Fort-Royal with my movables packed if I am serious about leaving. He advises me to come immediately, for there are rumours of a blockade. “In these turbulent times,” he wrote philosophically, sadly I thought, “nothing is as it seems, nothing is as it should be.”

  August 1, noon.

  Mother was on the verandah when I went to her this morning, darning socks that had been darned many times before. “You are leaving,” she said. She looked out over the garden of flowers I’d tended, the blooms drenched by the rain.

  I nodded, turned away. I have become weary of tears.

  August 6.

  We’ve been packing. All day Hortense has been fighting with Da Gertrude over a rag doll she wants to take with her, but Da Gertrude insists it will bring bad luck. “It was out all night in the light of the moon!” she said with great fear.

  August 7.

  This evening, after dinner, I brushed and braided Manette’s hair, the dark plaits falling over her shoulders. I read to her from Paul et Virginie until she fell asleep. I sat for a time with the book in my lap, the flame from the candle flickering from the breeze from the open window, looking out at the moon rising behind the tangled branches of the mango tree. Manette and I climbed that same tree when we were children. How does one say goodbye?

  Tuesday, August 10.

  I awoke shortly before dawn. As if by some miracle, it had stopped raining. Quietly I slipped down the stairs and out of the sucrerie, down to the bathing pond. I put my chemise and my head handkerchief on the wet rocks and slipped into the clear water, gasping until I became accustomed to the cold. A frog scuttled into the grass, but other than that there was not a sound but for the tree ferns rustling in the breeze. The scent of the orange tree filled the air.

  When the turtledoves began to coo, I emerged, heart heavy.
It was time. I dressed and made my final rounds, stopping to talk with the house-slaves. To each I gave a livre. I left three louis with the slave-master to divide among the field-hands. I knew Mother would not approve so I asked him not to tell.

  I told Da Gertrude to give Mimi my emerald. “Heal her,” I said. Open her heart. Da Gertrude began to cry. I wrapped my arms around her. “Go!” she said, pushing me away.

  I went to Father’s room.

  “So,” he said.

  I sat down on the straight-back chair next to the bed. It was wobbly, for one of its legs kept coming loose and had been secured, not too successfully, with hemp. A foul odour filled the room, a smell I had become accustomed to, “the smell of death,” Mother called it. But I had become too immersed in the mechanical routine of Father’s care to think of such things.

  I took his hand, for I felt comfortless entertaining such thoughts. His skin felt dry, thin—like the delicate texture of a snake’s discarded skin. “Is there anything I can get you?” I asked, for my devotion had taken this form: service.

  “You’ve done enough.” His eyes were grey. “Enough for a dying man.”

  I began to protest, uphold some vain lie—but I knew it would be disrespectful to deny him this, the reality of his passing. I nodded. “I will miss you, Father.”

  “Princess.” He squeezed my hand.

  The memory of my childhood dreams came back to me then, the enchantment of my father’s stories, told to a dream-struck girl in a hammock under a mango tree, fanning herself lazily with a palm-tree leaf. I kissed his cheek. “My King.” I swooped into the courtly curtsy he’d taught me as a girl, regally kicking an imaginary train aside as I turned to go.