“It’s good news.”
Aunt Désirée ushered us all into the Marquis’s apartment. There, I told them the news. I had to repeat it three times.
“My son? Alexandre? President of the National Assembly?” the Marquis exclaimed in disbelief. “But that’s not possible!”
I assured him it was so. Other than the King, there was no one more powerful, more important in all the land.
Wednesday, June 22.
I’ve been anxious, sleepless without news. Something has happened, for the gates to Paris have been closed; no mail, no journals, no couriers have been allowed in or out. It was whispered the King and Queen had fled the country—an unthinkable thought.
It was only this morning, at the procession in town for the feast of the Holy Sacrament, that Aunt Désirée and I were able to obtain a copy of the Moniteur. There our fears were confirmed: on the night of the twentieth, in disguise, the King and Queen and their two children escaped by means of the subterranean passages of the palace kitchens. It is thought that the royal berline headed for Varennes.
Quickly we returned to the house, for there was danger of the mob becoming heated. In the Marquis’s bedchamber, Aunt Désirée read the journal reports out loud. It was with considerable pride that we learned that Alexandre was being credited with holding the country together—“with a firm and steady hand.”
Aunt Désirée read, “President Deputy Alexandre Beauharnais has organized the effort to capture the King—”
“Capture the King!” The Marquis was taken with a nervous seizure.
“Not to capture, but to free him!” Aunt Désirée rushed for the ether.
The King has not fled, he’s been “abducted”; he’s not to be captured, he’s to be “freed.” If only reality could be changed so easily.
June 23.
This afternoon after supper—a lovely repast in honour of my twentyeighth birthday—we were alarmed by sounds outside on the street. Aunt Désirée’s chambermaid went to the window. “There’s a crowd in front of the house.”
“In front of this house?” the Marquis asked.
The children ran to the window. I jumped to my feet, nearly knocking a vase onto the floor. “Get back!” I commanded.
“They’re crying out ‘Dauphin’!” Eugène said, confused.
“Mon Dieu,” Aunt Désirée whispered. “They mean Eugène.”
“Because of Alexandre?”
“But the Dauphin is not here,” Hortense protested. “Is he not in Paris?”
I could not answer, my terror was so acute. The mob was calling my son Dauphin—the future King.
June 27, 1791—Paris
Dear Rose,
Thank you for writing such a very kind congratulation. And please, forgive me for neglecting your birthday. I am in a delirium. I’ve not had any sleep for four days. The events of this last week have been overwhelming, for both myself, as well as for the Nation.
In moments of despair I recall Rousseau’s words—that the best part of Virtue is to accept the yoke of necessity. And so it is with those of us who were born to the nobility, born to bear arms. How enlivening to be relieved of this slavery, to choose, instead, to risk life in honour of that which is True and Just. The sacrifices that we make for the Revolution will be a great benefit to mankind. With the love of Virtue spurring us on, how can we be defeated?
Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais
June 30.
François has taken on the role of the King’s defender in the Assembly. “He’s going to get us all hanged!” the Marquis sputtered.
Yesterday it was Alexandre’s condemnation of the King that enraged him.
The brothers fight it out over the King’s head on a national stage. Beauharnais for, Beauharnais against…If it isn’t one son, it’s the other.
July 6, 1791—Paris
Dear Rose,
I have been ill, having exhausted my system during the crisis. Thank you for enrolling Eugène in the Collège d’Harcourt for the fall. I had entirely forgotten. I agree that Hortense would benefit from more formal instruction at this time, as well. You will see to this? Not too costly, however.
Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais
July 18, 1791—Rue de Tournon, Paris
Darling!
It’s late, almost midnight, but I feel compelled to write. Alexandre gave a wonderful speech at the Jacobin Club tonight—so uplifting! We were all of us there to applaud him: Marie, Michel de Cubières, Frédéric. Even Princess Amalia came to hear him, in spite of her Royalist leanings. After we all went to the Café Covazza in the Palais-Royal. There Alexandre informed me that you intend to move to Paris, in order that your children might be educated.
Although transported with joy at the thought of seeing you and your wee darlings more often, I thought it would only be fair to warn you what Paris is like right now. It seems we are forever swinging from one extreme to the other, beginning with the sublime and ending in the tragic. Observe:
The week began with the grand fête and procession moving Voltaire’s remains to the Pantheon—another of the brilliantly theatrical events orches-trated by the painter David. (Have you met him? He came to my salon once.) Of course I had to go—you know how I feel about our Apostle of Tolerance. The service began in the Masonic Lodge of the Nine Sisters, then wended its way through a number of triumphal arches to the site of the old Bastille. There the coffin rested overnight.
By the time Michel Cubières and I got back Monday morning the roses, myrtles and laurels had been stripped. Representatives of the sections and clubs had turned out in togas and red wool caps (like those awful itchy ones we have to wear at Masonic meetings). The coffin was loaded onto a chariot and pulled to the Pantheon by a team of white horses. I melted with tears.
Thursday, another fête at the Bastille, this time for the Fête de la Fédération. We didn’t go (how unpatriotic) but that night the sky was fairly blooming with fire-rockets.
And yesterday, as if we must be punished for enjoying ourselves excessively, there was the tragic riot on the Champ-de-Mars. It began as a peaceful assembly—Marie was there with one of her women’s groups to sign a petition in favour of a Republic. It got out of hand when two men, spies (or so it is thought), were discovered hiding under the central platform, and were promptly lynched. So Lafayette called out the National Guard, someone in the crowd yelled “Fire!” and now more than fifty are dead.
Thank God Marie was not harmed! Over the course of the day I virtually emptied my bottle of laudanum. It did not help in the least that it was washing week here and the two women I’d hired to help kept disappearing to go off to some fête or demonstration or riot. And now, all these dreary funerals.
If, despite my warnings, you persevere in this matter of your children’s education, and move to our entertaining city, I recommend you contact Madame Hosten, a créole widow with three children (only one home still, I believe). I’ve been told that she has just purchased a hôtel on Rue Saint-Dominique (not too far from Hôtel de Salm), and is looking for someone to help share the expenses. It’s in a good district—there, at least, the neighbourhood ruffians aren’t out cutting off cats’ ears. You will find her a genial woman and will most assuredly not regret my sending you to her.
Your loving Aunt Fanny
July 26, 1791—Rue Saint-Dominique, Paris.
Dear Madame Beauharnais,
Your welcome letter was received yesterday. I take the liberty, through your aunt Madame Fanny Beauharnais, of addressing you a few lines relative to the inducements of my new abode.
The house is large, divided into two apartments, with rooms for domestics on the third floor. My daughter (age twelve) and I occupy the ground floor. The upstairs suite is small but sunny. There is a walled-in garden. The Church of Saint Thomas Aquinas is immediately behind us.
It will give me much pleasure to see you at our residence next Monday evening in order that you might view the accommodations. Hoping to have the pleasure of welcoming yourself and y
our family as neighbours, I am,
Yours, very truly, Madame Hosten
Tuesday, August 2—Fontainebleau.
As arranged, I called on Madame Hosten on Rue Saint-Dominique, in order to view the apartment. A maid in a day-gown of worked muslin answered the door and was about to speak when a huge and somewhat imposing woman appeared behind her. She was wearing a fencing mask and carrying a sabre in her hand. “Who is it?” she asked, removing the mask. Her voice was gentle, in contrast to her stance.
“Madame Beauharnais.” I put forward my card, somewhat nervously, I confess. “I believe I am expected.”
“What island are you from?” the woman exclaimed, recognizing my accent. She put down her sabre. “No—let me guess. Martinico?”
She was Madame Hosten—and she’s from Sainte-Lucie. Her family even knows Father! After showing me the rooms—they are perfect, quite sunny—she invited me into her downstairs parlour for ginger sweets and a glass (or two) of pétépié. We talked for hours.
Her name is Aimée. Although big (huge!), she is graceful in manner, dainty even. She has an acid wit, quite drôle. She is thirty—only two years older than I am—widowed, yet managing quite well on her own with three children, two boys aged fifteen and sixteen (serving an apprenticeship in the military), and a girl of twelve, Lucie, still at home. I’ve feel I’ve found a friend.
September 1—Paris.
I’m exhausted, we’ve moved. I’ve hired a chambermaid, Agathe Rible, a meek creature who stutters. I assure her she has nothing to fear, but she only quakes all the more. Already her trembling has resulted in three glasses shattered.
September 14.
In the Assembly today the King pledged an oath of allegiance to the constitution. Firecrackers have been exploding all afternoon. The Revolution is over!
Alexandre joined us on Rue Saint-Dominique to celebrate. I took his cloak and hat at the door. “Congratulations,” I said, embracing him. He looked flushed and his breath smelled of brandy. No doubt there had been many toasts proposed at the Jacobin Club.
Eugène came sliding down the stair-rail and jumped into his father’s arms. “You won!”
Alexandre laughed. “We all won.”
Hortense came leaping down the stairs after her brother, three steps at a time. “Won what?”
“A constitution,” Eugène told her officiously.
“You must feel proud of what you’ve accomplished,” I said, upstairs in our new parlour. It had been an exhausting effort, I knew, to craft a constitution—one that gave France the best of two worlds, a Republic with a monarch. “And relieved.”
“It remains to be seen if the King can actually work with it.” Alexandre tapped tobacco into his pipe, lit it. “Sharing power will be trying to him, I expect. He was raised to rule his subjects, not to be beholden to them.”
“If he were wise, he would use this opportunity to unite France,” I said.
“Wisdom is not inherent in kingship, regrettably. And now, no doubt, all the Royalist countries will be sending in their troops to save him from this horrifying development…”
“You believe there will be war?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Austria?”
He nodded. “And Prussia, and—”
There was a sudden clattering on the stairs. Hortense and Eugène burst into the room. They’d caught a frog in the garden. Alexandre and I helped to make a “home” for the little thing out of a travelling basket. Then, after a meal of mutton and cream fritters, we took the children to the show of paintings at the annual Salon. As we entered the second gallery, there it was: Alexandre’s portrait, paired with that of Deputy Robespierre. Eugène and Hortense were of course most pleased, although they fail to comprehend the prestige that attends such an honour. We admired the likeness, which is excellent.
On the way home, we walked along the river, exclaiming as each fire-rocket exploded. Lovers strolled languidly by. The memory of being introduced to Alexandre came back to me then—Alexandre so young, so worldly, so dashing in his white uniform, myself a nervous girl from the Islands, so anxious to please, so willing to offer my heart.
A fire-rocket burst directly overhead. I startled, clutched Alexandre’s arm. We laughed. The children, their cheeks pink, went running on ahead. A pleasing portrait, I thought: a man, his wife, two children, out for an evening stroll.
February, 1792.
It’s as Alexandre predicted: we’ve become a country under siege. Austrian and Prussian troops assemble at our borders, preparing to march on Paris, preparing to rescue us from democracy. Preparing to rescue our King.
March 15.
I’ve been overcome with the vapours. Daily I am bled. Hortense and Eugène hover, bringing me drinks of tea and rum. Night falls. Alone, I pull myself to my feet, fall to my knees in front of the holy-water stoup. I have not had news from home for over a year. In the silence, fears grow, bloom, take shape.
I resist the cards, resist the temptation to look. But control was never my friend. I dig for them in the writing desk, in the upper corner of the top drawer, next to the bottle of ink. Pretending calm, I lay out the first card.
The Falling Tower: the stones falling, the men tossed and turned as if by some force beyond their control.
I did not need to see the rest: the Wheel of Fortune, Death, the Star turned upside-down.
Manette is dead.
I put the cards away.
Manette—dear little one—I see you in the stars, I see you skipping over the boulders in the river. Wait for me! you cry out—to me, your big sister. Wait for me!
April 20.
Paris has become an armed camp. The Church of Saint Thomas Aquinas is being used to assemble munitions: on the pews guns, muskets, swords, bayonets, even cannon balls are stacked. One sees men with pikes everywhere. Boys too young to fight stand in lines to sign up. Eugène watches them with envy. I pull him away.
April 21.
I woke with a feeling of foreboding, so when Alexandre arrived unexpectedly this morning, I felt threatened by vapours. “You’re in uniform.” I heard footsteps in the street, a woman calling out, distant drumbeats. The fear I’d felt on waking was with me still. “Married men do not have to serve, Alexandre. I don’t understand.”
“The Republic is in need of officers.”* Alexandre put his hands on my shoulders. “Rose, please—don’t ask me to go into battle without your blessing.”
It was a solemn moment, broken by the discovery of something wiggling inside Alexandre’s greatcoat. I cried out. Alexandre drew an animal out of his pocket—a horrid-looking pug, no bigger than a rodent. It had a fawn-coloured body and a black head. “It’s a King Charles,” he said. It squirmed out of his hands onto the rug. It was sniffing at my feet, making snorting noises, as if it couldn’t breathe. “A dog like this is worth ten louis,” Alexandre said proudly.
I called for Agathe, my timid chambermaid, but she wouldn’t go near it—it looked too much like a rat. “It’s only a puppy,” I chided her, picking the little thing up and heading for the children’s room, motioning for Alexandre to follow.
“Is it a dog?” Eugène asked, examining its corkscrew tail.
“Does it bite?” Hortense this time, holding out her hand to it. She squealed when it licked her. It growled. “Is it hungry?”
“Can we keep it?” Eugène asked.
Alexandre looked at me: Would I?
I held out my hand to the little thing. It licked and nipped me, its teeth harmless but sharp. Its nose was flat, pushed into its face. It was a repulsive creature—yet it charmed me. “Fortuné. That’s what we will call him.”
I do not need to say more. We—Alexandre, the children and I—passed the morning together most enjoyably. When we bid him farewell it was with regret. I gave him a stone I’d had since childhood, a talisman.
“I will keep it with me always.” He hesitated at the door as we were parting. “May I kiss you, Rose?”
“Say yes, Maman!” Eug�
�ne exclaimed.
I embraced my husband.
“May God be with you!” Hortense cried out as Alexandre passed through the gate. She burst into tears.
“Come now,” I chided, drying her cheeks, “a soldier’s daughter must not weep.” Nor a soldier’s wife.
In which we are at war
April 23, 1792.
There is a curfew in Paris now. By ten the city is dark, silent but for the sound of the guards’ boots on the cobblestones and cats fighting in the alleyways. From somewhere, I hear a church bell ring out one note, a lovely, melancholy sound—and so rare now. Most church bells have been melted down for munitions.
April 25, 1792—Valenciennes
Dear Rose,
I have been assigned to General Biron’s staff. Only a fraction of the available troops have been assembled here for fear of risking the safety of the fortified towns. The result is that the war plans are to be executed with very small numbers. On learning this, I had a will made up. I am forwarding it on to you, sealed. It is not to be opened until such time as…
Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais
May 2, 1792—Valenciennes
Dear Rose,
Forgive me for alarming you. And thank you for your prayers. If I’m to die of anything, it will likely be frustration. How am I to make soldiers of these farmboys? When they get hungry, bored or have a little fright they take up their muskets and head home.
Give the children my love. I keep your talisman with me always.
Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais
May 4.
Alexandre has been in battle against the Austrians. His behaviour was praised in the Moniteur. Proudly, I showed the article to the children. We have attached a large map to the wall of the dining area where we trace his progress. As well, we are making a book of clippings from the journals, which is already thick, for the Moniteur publishes Alexandre’s patriotic articles daily.
The Josephine B. Trilogy Page 19
