“It’s from Mother?” I recognized the writing.
“Apparently it was delivered to our old hôtel on Rue Neuve-Saint-Charles.”
I broke the seal, scanned the contents. Uncle Tascher was safe. Father, Manette, were alive.
“It is bad news?” Alexandre asked, alarmed by my tears.
“No, yes.”
“Good news?”
I laughed, handing him the letter to read. “I’m to protect myself against you,” I explained.
“Me?”
“Unless, of course, I succeed in reforming you.”
September 23, this year of our Lord, 1790—Trois-Ilets
Dear Rose,
I trust that my prayers have been answered and that you and Hortense have completed your journey safely. Your father and sister continue to weaken, in spite of my prayers.
Your uncle Tascher was released shortly after your departure and in time the rebels were subdued. The disturbance, however, continues. I have had to take measures to ensure discipline with the slaves.
The government in France is godless. I have reason to believe that your children’s father may be of their party. It is the duty of a mother to help that which is of God overcome that which can only be the work of the Devil. For the sake of your children, Rose, pray for Alexandre’s salvation.
There is increased talk of war. It may be some time before I am able to write to you again. The English continue to blockade the port. It was only through smugglers and the will of God that I have been able to get this letter to you, should you receive it.
Your mother, Madame Claire de Tascher de la Pagerie
Wednesday, November 24.
Everyone has been recruited to help Fanny prepare for her reception. Princess Amalia’s brother Frédéric—Prince de Salm-Kyrburg—and I were asked to write out the “at home” cards. He’s a charming man, quite short, with no chin at all. He was happy to do it, he confided. He and his sister have just built a mansion on Rue de Lille—Hôtel de Salm it is called.* In his drôle German accent he complained that it smelled of plaster, that his sister was forever engaging him in discussions about wall-covering, and that he welcomed any excuse to get out. “Who wants to stay at home all day with servants who snicker at you behind your back?” he said.
“At least you have servants,” Fanny interrupted. She was covered with flour and seemed a little jolly. She’d been in the kitchen all morning with Jacques, her man-of-all-work, training him to cook, a vocation for which he showed enthusiasm if not promise. I suspected she’d been sipping the cooking wine.
“You mean masters,” Frédéric said, indulging his passion for paradox.
November 27.
Fanny’s evening started out well, in spite of many disasters: the goose overcooked, the cake fell in upon itself and a drape in the front parlour caught fire.
Quite a few people came, and the mix was invigorating. Royalists socialized with radicals, artists with bankers. A number of the guests were deputies from the National Assembly. As Alexandre’s wife, I am held in high esteem. One deputy even assumed I would be in a position of influence and asked if I would speak to Alexandre on a certain matter.
I was struck with how things have changed. Where before people paraded finery, now they boast of economy. Where before our distractions were bouts-rimes and charades, now people amuse themselves with talk of politics…and, of course, what is now called “economics”: national product, inflation, public debt. (It seems that everyone is writing a plan of finance to save France.)
There were a few poets present, fortunately, several of whom were persuaded to recite from their latest creation—which of course they just happened to have with them. Fanny even got me to play her harp, which I did quite badly, I confess—I haven’t practised for some time.
Even so, Deputy Emmery Dunnkirk, the banker Alexandre introduced me to at the Assembly, was effusive in his praise (between explosive sneezes). We talked for some time. He believes he might be able to make contact with Mother, in spite of the English blockade—in any case, he will try. He has clients who have dealings with the Islands, so he is not unfamiliar with the difficulties.
It wasn’t until after supper that Alexandre arrived. He joined me in the front parlour. “I was impressed by your article in the Moniteur today,” I told him. It was a long dissertation on the need for better hospitals.
Alexandre was about to say something when we were joined by a man with an enormous moustache, a deputy from Poitou. “Deputy Beauharnais, you devil, you never told me you had such a lovely wife!”
“Rose—I must say, you’ve made quite an impression on all my comrades,” Alexandre said. “Everywhere I go—”
“Alexandre, I didn’t know you had arrived!” Alexandre’s cousin Marie interrupted. She was wearing red and blue cockades all over her bodice, the badges of a revolutionary.
“Deputy Beauharnais, how charming to see you!” Princess Amalia joined in. Her hair had been arranged in the old style, stacked high and heavily powdered. Silk ribbons and feathers were stuck into it everywhere.
“Are there hairdressers who still know how to dress hair like that?” the deputy from Poitou asked.
“Hélas! There’s a flour shortage and she’s pouring the stuff onto her hair,” Marie said.
Prince Frédéric, who overheard, was about to say something in his sister’s defence when we were joined by Deputy Dunnkirk and another deputy, a Monsieur Lyautey, and the discussion turned to the new land tax.
Alexandre and Frédéric excused themselves—they were late for a meeting of a debating society,* “formed under the auspices of the virtues,” Alexandre said, putting on his hat. “I will see you and the children in Fontainebleau? Over the holidays?”
“My pleasure.”
He took my hand and kissed it with a tender show of feeling. “The pleasure will be mine.”
In which I suffer a great loss
Wednesday, December 1, 1790.
Fontainebleau is a ghost town. The palace gardens have grown wild, the long grass rampant. Gypsies are camped there.
Nevertheless, it was a joyful reunion; the Marquis stuttered, Aunt Désirée wept. They exclaimed how Hortense had grown, pampering her with a multitude of kisses.
The Marquis is frail, as one expects of a man of seventy-six. Indeed, it is a blessing he is with us still. I was relieved to find Aunt Désirée strong in both body and spirit. Their house showed signs of neglect—it is clear that they are getting by on very little.
It did not take Aunt Désirée long to bring up the subject of Alexandre. She has cut out all the articles about him in the news-sheets and pasted them into a big book which she proudly displayed, turning the pages reverently.
She did not say how she felt about his views. I wonder if she thinks of such things. Yet how can she not? Alexandre supported forsaking feudal rights—this alone has cost the Marquis a great deal. And now Alexandre supports the Church being made a government institution. Does Aunt Désirée not understand what this could mean?
“Look at this one,” she said. “His name is mentioned five times.”
“It’s wonderful,” I said, turning the pages.
The next day.
Aunt Désirée and I had a talk this morning—about finances. It was impossible to put off. We had to decide what to do about Adélaïde d’Antigny, Alexandre’s six-year-old illegitimate daughter we are both of us supporting. It is hard enough to support ourselves. Nevertheless, I could not accept cutting off the girl’s care entirely. Aunt Désirée urged me to be firmer with Alexandre. I was making it too easy for him. “If you were to demand more, perhaps he would see the benefit of a reconciliation.”
“Perhaps I do not wish a reconciliation.” I turned my attention to my needlework.
“Yet you care for him.”
“As do any number of women.” Alexandre’s “successes” were legendary.
Aunt Désirée cleared her throat. There was a moment of silence. “Surely you do not prefer t
o remain single.”
“I believe I have no other option.”
Aunt Désirée put down her lacework. “Rose—there is something you should know,” she began, as if she were about to reveal a confidence. “A wise woman does not allow her husband’s ‘amusements’ to disturb her, a wise woman closes her eyes. In allowing her husband his freedom, she dominates him!”
I confess I did not know how to respond. I knew my Aunt Désirée to be a woman well versed in the art of getting her way, but I had never suspected that she supported her actions with philosophy.
Aunt Désirée, sensing that she had captured my attention, went on. “Alexandre has a taste for tumultuous sensations, he is easily carried away—but surely such excessive sensibility is only proof of a good heart. A family that has suffered the stain of separation can never be repaired. The dishonour will endure for generations to come. I tell you this most painful fact out of the wisdom of my own experience. Rose, you owe it to your children to do everything in your power to bring about a reconciliation between yourself and your husband—the man to whom you were united by God.”
Now, past dark, I sit in the quiet of my room. The memory of Aunt Désirée’s lecture brings a smile to my heart, but the intent of her words brings dismay. I would give my life for my children—I would not hesitate to die for them—but would I live with Alexandre for them?
The lantern throws a flickering light on the walls.
In the light I see security, but in the shadows I see grief…in the shadows I see defeat.
December 13, 1790—Paris
Dear Rose,
I note that today is the eleventh anniversary of the day on which we were wed. I am writing to commemorate that union, which has brought forth two beautiful children into the world.
I intend to come to Fontainebleau for the holidays. No doubt my Royalist brother plans to come as well. It is almost impossible for us to communicate now without becoming heated, but for the sake of family harmony I will attempt to put thoughts of Truth aside.
Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais
Note—Make sure Eugène perseveres daily in his studies. Do not allow any exceptions, for in this way his natural inclination toward laziness takes root.
Christmas Day.
Alexandre arrived laden with gifts, including a jewellery case for Hortense and enamelled boot buckles for me. Hortense ended in a frenzy of emotion, weeping her heart out in her room. It was just too much, this sudden regard from this stranger, her father.
I understand her confusion.
Sunday, December 26.
What a terrible evening. Aunt Désirée is in the parlour with the Marquis, giving him ether, trying to calm him.
It began after supper, over coffee. The Marquis asked François how things were going in the Assembly. I believe it affronted Alexandre that his father had not asked him. In any case, Alexandre interrupted to point out the causes he has furthered. It was at this point that François suggested that Alexandre inform their father of his views on the clergy.
“Well, Alexandre,” the Marquis asked, “do you believe priests should forsake the Church?”
“It is possible to read on his countenance all his projects, Father,” François said. “Alexandre not only supported that motion, he was one of the deputies who advocated it.”
“Why should the clergy be exempt?” Alexandre countered. “It is equality we believe in, yet it is inequality we further—”
“Pretty words,” François interrupted, “but they dangerously evade the issue. Honour is not unknown to men of religion. What will you do when the priests refuse? Put them to the lantern?”
Aunt Désirée excused herself from the table. I found her in the parlour, arranging and rearranging the religious relics on the mantelpiece. From the dining parlour I heard Alexandre exclaim, “And that reality is starvation!”
“Is it true?” Aunt Désirée looked paler than I had ever seen her. “Does Alexandre believe that the priests should renounce the Pope?” She sank into the chair by the grate. She shivered; the embers did not heat the room. I heard voices from the dining parlour again: François and Alexandre. And then, the Marquis: “I will not have it, Alexandre de Beauharnais!” pronouncing the “de” with great spite.*
There was the sound of china breaking. Alexandre strode forcefully down the hall. He banged the front door shut behind him, shaking the walls. As the sound of his horse’s hoofs grew faint, Aunt Désirée gave way to tears.
Friday, December 31.
Alexandre returned on the last day of the year. He’d ridden a bay gelding all the way from Paris.
“I didn’t want to start the New Year unluckily,” he told me, taking first Hortense and then Eugène into his arms.
“Did you bring me something?” Hortense asked.
“Of course,” Alexandre said. “For the New Year.”
Eagerly the children tore open their gifts: a riding whip for Eugène and a blue velvet bag for Hortense.
“And for your mother.” He handed me a parcel. Inside was an embroidered muff.
“It’s lovely.” I kissed his cheek. Eugène and Hortense ran out of the room, giggling.
Alexandre poured himself a brandy. “Has my father forgiven me yet?”
“He’s so forgetful now. He likely can’t remember what happened.”
“I brought him a copy of Hume’s History of England.”
“You’re giving him a book written by a Protestant?”
Alexandre slapped his forehead. “I didn’t think.”
“How long can you stay?”
He made a face. “I’ve a meeting in the morning, in Paris.”
“On a Sunday? On New Year’s Day?”
He sighed. “Making history is so time-consuming.” He confessed he was uneasy about a speech he planned to give at the Jacobin Club the following week, on the subject of public education. He feared no one would attend. When Robespierre spoke, tickets had to be purchased in advance, but for an unknown such as himself—
There was a commotion in the foyer. Suddenly Aunt Désirée rushed into the room, her hat still on. “Alexandre!” She looked pale. “Have you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“You don’t know?” She rummaged around in her handbasket, her hand pressed to her chest.
“Aunt Désirée?” Was she all right?
She pulled a news-sheet out of her basket. “Two thousand créoles have been murdered in Saint-Domingue! By slaves!”
“Murdered?” Two thousand? I put my hand to my mouth. Mon Dieu.
Alexandre took the journal from her. Cap-François had been destroyed, the road to the city lined with the bodies of slaves—ten thousand killed, he read.
Ten thousand? Had I heard correctly?
“We’re ruined!” Aunt Désirée rummaged through the writing desk. “I thought there were some salts in here.”
“Behind the quills,” I said.
“Our properties are at some distance from Cap-François,” Alexandre called out as she headed up the stairs to the Marquis’s rooms.
I stood by the fireplace, staring into the flames.
“This is unfortunate,” Alexandre said. He was standing at the window, clasping and unclasping the pommel of his sword.
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you should be sitting down,” he said.
“I will be all right.”
“I insist.” He cleared his throat. “I bring…other news.”
I felt apprehensive. I sat down.
“You understand that it is difficult to get mail in or out of Martinico. The British have set up a blockade.”
Martinico? I nodded. “Deputy Dunnkirk has been trying to contact my family.”
“That’s why I came.” Alexandre took the chair beside mine. “Emmery asked me to tell you that in spite of the civil war there, he has been able to get through.”
“There’s a war in Martinico?”
“You didn’t know?”
My heart began to flut
ter. “You’ve had news, Alexandre?”
“Yes.”
I felt a tingling sensation in my fingers. “Is it my sister?”
“No.”
“Tell me!”
“Your father…He—”
I pressed my hands together.
“I’m sorry, Rose. Your father exchanged worlds last November.” He put his hand on my shoulder.
I could not catch my breath. Father. Tears came to my eyes.
Alexandre took a handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket and handed it to me. “No doubt you were expecting this. Your father has been ill for a very long time.”
“No!”
January 1, 1791.
The New Year. It is quiet. No fêtes, no grand balls, no receptions. Instead of perfumed water, stagnant pools fill the fountains.
I wake with a sense of loss. I think of Father, a man so given to dreams.
What did his life mean, in the end?
My mother hated him.
Harsh words, but reality must be respected. And the reality of my father’s life was: he suffered, he achieved nothing.
In which Alexandre is a hero
June 21, 1791—Fontainebleau.
On my way to the perfumer this morning a placard on a tavern wall caught my attention. In bold letters was the name Beauharnais. Alexandre has been elected President of the National Assembly.*
Immediately I returned to the house. Coming in the door I called out to Aunt Désirée. I summoned the children, who were in the garden. “I have news of your father!”
Aunt Désirée came to the landing. “Is the Marquis in his room?” I asked.
“It’s about Father!” Eugène called out. He had tracked mud onto the carpet.
“Is Alexandre all right?” Aunt Désirée asked.
The Josephine B. Trilogy Page 18
